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JJeto  Wlnxtozxml  Ipbrarg 


"T/ 


i 

THE  WORKS 

OF 


JOHN  STUART  MILL 

IV 

DISSERTATIONS  AND  DISCUSSIONS 


SERIES  I 


I 


DISSERTATIONS 


AND 

DISCUSSIONS 


BY 

JOHN  STUART  MILL 


LONDON 

GEORGE  ROUTLEDGE  & SONS,  Limited 

NEW  YORK  : E.  P.  DUTTON  & CO. 


PRINTED  BY 

BILLING  AND  SONS,  LTD., 
GUILDFORD,  ENGLAND 


PREFACE 


n&\{d 

nor 


The  republication  in  a more  durable  form,  of  papers 
originally  contributed  to  periodicals,  has  grown  into  so 
common  a practice  as  scarcely  to  need  an  apology  ; 
and  I follow  this  practice  the  more  willingly,  as  I 
hold  it  to  be  decidedly  a beneficial  one.  It  would 
be  well  if  all  frequent  writers  in  periodicals  looked 
forward,  as  far  as  the  case  admitted,  to  this  reappear- 
ance of  their  productions.  The  prospect  might  be 
some  guarantee  against  the  crudity  in  the  formation  of 
opinions,  and  carelessness  in  their  expression,  which 
are  the  besetting  sins  of  writings  put  forth  under  the 
screen  of  anonymousness,  to  be  read  only  during  the 
next  few  weeks  or  months,  if  so  long,  and  the  defects 
" of  which  it  is  seldom  probable  that  any  one  will  think 
it  worth  while  to  expose. 

The  following  papers,  selected  from  a much  greater 
^number,  include  all  of  the  writer’s  miscellaneous  pro- 
ductions which  he  considers  it  in  any  way  desirable 
to  preserve.  The  remainder  were  either  of  too  little 
value  at  any  time,  or  what  value  they  might  have 
was  too  exclusively  temporary,  or  the  thoughts  they 
Contained  were  inextricably  mixed  up  with  comments, 
now  totally  uninteresting,  on  passing  events,  or  on 
Jtsome  book  not  generally  known  ; or  lastly,  any  utility 
they  may  have  possessed  has  since  been  superseded 
by  other  and  more  mature  writings  of  the  author. 


VI 


PREFACE 


Every  one  whose  mind  is  progressive,  or  even 
whose  opinions  keep  up  with  the  changing  facts  that 
surround  him,  must  necessarily,  in  looking  back  to 
his  own  writings  during  a series  of  years,  find  many 
things  which,  if  they  were  to  be  written  again,  he 
would  write  differently,  and  some,  even,  which  he  has 
altogether  ceased  to  think  true.  From  these  last  I 
have  endeavoured  to  clear  the  present  pages.  Beyond 
this,  I have  not  attempted  to  render  papers  written 
at  so  many  different,  and  some  of  them  at  such 
distant,  times,  a faithful  representation  of  my  present 
state  of  opinion  and  feeling.  I leave  them  in  all 
their  imperfection,  as  memorials  of  the  states  of 
mind  in  which  they  were  written,  in  the  hope  that 
they  may  possibly  be  useful  to  such  readers  as  are  in 
a corresponding  stage  of  their  own  mental  progress. 
Where  what  I had  written  appears  a fair  statement  ' 
of  part  of  the  truth,  but  defective  inasmuch  as  there 
exists  another  part  respecting  which  nothing,  or  too 
little,  is  said,  I leave  the  deficiency  to  be  supplied  by  ■ 
the  reader’s  own  thoughts  ; the  rather,  as  he  will,  in 
many  cases,  find  the  balance  restored  in  some  other 
part  of  this  collection.  Thus,  the  review  of  Mr. 
Sedgwick’s  Discourse,  taken  by  itself,  might  give 
an  impression  of  more  complete  adhesion  to  the  ] 
philosophy  of  Locke,  Bentham,  and  the  eighteenth  l 
century,  than  is  really  the  case,  and  of  an  inadequate  i 
sense  of  its  deficiencies ; but  that  notion  will  be  ■ 
rectified  by  the  subsequent  essays  on  Bentham  and 
on  Coleridge.  These,  again,  if  they  stood  alone, 
would  give  just  as  much  too  strong  an  impression  of 
the  writer’s  sympathy  with  the  reaction  of  the  nine- 


PREFACE 


vii 


teenth  century  against  the  eighteenth : but  this 
exaggeration  will  be  corrected  by  the  more  recent 
defence  of  the  “greatest  happiness”  ethics  against 
Dr.  Whewell. 

Only  a small  number  of  these  papers  are  con- 
troversial, and  in  but  two  am  I aware  of  anything 
like  asperity  of  tone.  In  both  these  cases  some  degree 
of  it  was  justifiable,  as  I was  defending  maligned 
doctrines  or  individuals,  against  unmerited  onslaughts 
by  persons  who,  on  the  evidence  afforded  by  them- 
selves, were  in  no  respect  entitled  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  them ; and  the  same  misrepresentations  have  been 
and  still  are  so  incessantly  reiterated  by  a crowd  of 
writers,  that  emphatic  protests  against  them  are  as 
needful  now  as  when  the  papers  in  question  were  first 
written.  My  adversaries,  too,  were  men  not  them- 
selves remarkable  for  mild  treatment  of  opponents, 
and  quite  capable  of  holding  their  own  in  any  form  of 
reviewing  or  pamphleteering  polemics.  I believe  that 
I have  in  no  case  fought  with  other  than  fair  weapons, 
and  any  strong  expressions  which  I have  used  were 
extorted  from  me  by  my  subject,  not  prompted  by 
the  smallest  feeling  of  personal  ill-will  towards  my 
antagonists.  In  the  revision  I have  endeavoured  to 
retain  only  as  much  of  this  strength  of  expression  as 
could  not  be  foregone  without  weakening  the  force  of 
the  protest. 


\ 


i\ 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  RIGHT  AND  WRONG  OF  STATE  INTERFERENCE 

WITH  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  - 1 

THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE  - - - 34 

A FEW  OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  45 
THOUGHTS  ON  POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES  - 51 

professor  sedgwick’s  discourse  on  the  studies 
OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAMBRIDGE  - - 77 

CIVILIZATION  - 130 

APHORISMS  I A FRAGMENT  - 168 

ARMAND  CARREL  - - * - - 172 

A PROPHECY  .....  232 

WRITINGS  OF  ALFRED  DE  VIGNY  -■  - - 235 

BENTHAM  ------  270 

COLERIDGE  322 

APPENDIX  ------  383 


ix 


V 


APPENDIX* 


From  the  principle  of  the  necessity  of  identifying  the 
interest  of  the  government  with  that  of  the  people, 
most  of  the  practical  maxims  of  a representative 
government  are  corollaries.  All  popular  institutions 
are  means  towards  rendering  the  identity  of  interest 
more  complete.  We  say  more  complete,  because  (and 
this  it  is  important  to  remark)  perfectly  complete  it 
can  never  be.  An  approximation  is  all  that  is,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  possible.  By  pushing  to  its  utmost 
extent  the  accountability  of  governments  to  the  people, 
you  indeed  take  away  from  them  the  power  of  prose- 
cuting their  own  interests  at  the  expense  of  the  people 
by  force,  but  you  leave  to  them  the  whole  range  and 
compass  of  fraud.  An  attorney  is  accountable  to  his 
client,  and  removable  at  his  client’s  pleasure  ; but  we 
should  scarcely  say  that  his  interest  is  identical  with 
that  of  his  client.  When  the  accountability  is  perfect, 
the  interest  of  rulers  approximates  more  and  more  to 
identity  with  that  of  the  people,  in  proportion  as  the 
people  are  more  enlightened.  The  identity  would  be 
perfect,  only  if  the  people  were  so  wise,  that  it  should 
no  longer  be  practicable  to  employ  deceit  as  an  instru- 
ment of  government ; a point  of  advancement  only 
one  stage  below  that  at  which  they  could  do  without 
government  altogether  ; at  least,  without  force,  and 
penal  sanctions,  not  (of  course)  without  guidance  and 
organized  co-operation. 

Identification  of  interest  between  the  rulers  and  the 
ruled,  being  therefore,  in  a literal  sense,  impossible  to 
be  realized,  ought  not  to  be  spoken  of  as  a condition 
which  a government  must  absolutely  fulfil ; but  as  an 
end  to  be  incessantly  aimed  at,  and  approximated  to 
* London  Reviewi  July  and  October,  1835. 

383 


884 


APPENDIX 


as  nearly  as  circumstances  render  possible,  and  as  is 
compatible  with  the  regard  due  to  other  ends.  For 
this  identity  of  interest,  even  if  it  were  wholly  attain- 
able, not  being  the  sole  requisite  of  good  government, 
expediency  may  require  that  we  should  sacrifice  some 
portion  of  it,  or  (to  speak  more  precisely)  content  our- 
selves with  a somewhat  less  approximation  to  it  than 
might  possibly  be  attainable,  for  the  sake  of  some 
other  end. 

The  only  end,  liable  occasionally  to  conflict  with 
that  which  we  have  been  insisting  on,  and  at  all  com- 
parable to  it  in  importance — the  only  other  condition 
essential  to  good  government — is  this  : That  it  be 
government  by  a select  body,  not  by  the  public  col- 
lectively : That  political  questions  be  not  decided  by 
an  appeal,  either  direct  or  indirect,  to  the  judgment  or 
will  of  an  uninstructed  mass,  whether  of  gentlemen  or 
of  clowns ; but  by  the  deliberately  formed  opinions  of 
a comparatively  few,  specially  educated  for  the  task. 
This  is  an  element  of  good  government  which  has 
existed,  in  a greater  or  less  degree,  in  some  aristo- 
cracies, though  unhappily  not  in  our  own ; and  has 
been  the  cause  of  whatever  reputation  for  prudent  and 
skilful  administration  those  governments  have  enjoyed. 
It  has  seldom  been  found  in  any  aristocracies  but  those 
which  were  avowedly  such.  Aristocracies  in  the  guise 
of  monarchies  (such  as  those  of  England  and  France) 
have  very  generally  been  aristocracies  of  idlers ; while 
the  others  (such  as  Borne,  Venice,  and  Holland)  might 
partially  be  considered  as  aristocracies  of  experienced 
and  laborious  men.  Of  all  modern  governments,  how- 
ever, the  one  by  which  this  excellence  is  possessed  in 
the  most  eminent  degree  is  the  government  of  Prussia 
— a most  powerfully  and  strongly  organized  aristocracy 
of  the  most  highly-educated  men  in  the  kingdom.  The 
British  government  in  India  partakes  (with  consider- 
able modifications)  of  the  same  character. 

When  this  principle  has  been  combined  with  other 
fortunate  circumstances,  and  particularly  (as  in 
Prussia)  with  circumstances  rendering  the  popularity 


THE  RIGHT  AND  WRONG 

OP 

STATE  INTERFERENCE  WITH  CORPORATION 
AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  * 

It  is  intended,  in  the  present  paper,  to  enter  somewhat 
minutely  into  the  subject  of  Foundations  and  Endow- 
ments, and  the  rights  and  duties  of  the  Legislature  in 
respect  to  them  : with  the  design,  first,  of  showing 
that  there  is  no  moral  hindrance  or  bar  to  the  inter 
ference  of  the  Legislature  with  endowments,  though  it 
should  even  extend  to  a total  change  in  their  purposes  ; 
and  next,  of  inquiring,  in  what  spirit,  and  with  what 
reservations,  it  is  incumbent  on  a virtuous  Legislature 
to  exercise  this  power.  As  questions  of  political  ethics, 
and  the  philosophy  of  legislation  in  the  abstract,  these 
inquiries  are  not  unworthy  of  the  consideration  of 
thinking  minds.  But  to  this  country,  and  at  this  par- 
ticular time,  they  are  practical  questions  ; not  solely  in 
that  more  elevated  and  philosophical  sense,  in  which 
all  questions  of  right  and  wrong  are  emphatically 
practical  questions ; but  as  being  the  peculiar  topics  of 
the  present  hour.  For  no  one  can  help  seeing  that  one 
of  the  most  pressing  of  the  duties  which  Parliamentary 
Reform  has  devolved  upon  our  public  men,  is  that  of 
deciding  what  honestly  may , and,  supposing  this  deter- 
mined, what  should,  be  done  with  the  property  of  the 
Church,  and  of  the  various  Public  Corporations. 

It  is  a twofold  problem ; a question  of  expediency, 
and  a question  of  morality  : the  former  complex,  and 
depending  upon  temporary  circumstances ; the  latter 
simple,  and  unchangeable.  We  are  to  examine,  not 
merely  in  what  way  a certain  portion  of  property  may 
* Jurist,  February,  1833. 


1 


2 CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


be  most  usefully  employed ; that  is  a subsequent  con- 
sideration : but,  whether  it  can  be  touched  at  all  with- 
out spoliation  ; whether  the  diversion  of  the  estates  of 
foundations  from  the  present  hands,  and  from  the 
present  purposes,  would  be  disposing  of  what  is  justly 
our  own,  or  robbing  somebody  else  of  what  is  his ; 
violating  property,  endangering  all  rights,  and  in- 
fringing the  first  principles  of  the  social  union.  For 
the  enemies  of  the  interference  of  the  Legislature  assert 
no  less.  And,  if  this  were  so,  it  would  already  be  an 
act  of  immorality  even  to  discuss  the  other  question. 
It  is  not  a fit  occupation  for  an  honest  man,  to  cast  up 
the  probable  profits  of  an  act  of  plunder.  If  a resump- 
tion of  endowments  belongs  to  a class  of  acts  which,  by 
universal  agreement,  ought  to  be  abstained  from,  what- 
ever may  be  their  consequences  ; there  is  no  more  to 
be  said.  Whether  it  does  so  or  not,  is  the  question 
now  to  be  considered. 

If  the  inquiry  were  embarrassed  with  no  other  diffi- 
culties than  are  inherent  in  its  own  nature,  it  would 
not,  we  think,  detain  us  long.  Unfortunately  it  is 
inextricably  entangled  with  the  hopes  and  fears,  the 
attachments  and  antipathies,  of  temporary  politics. 
All  men  are  either  friendly  or  hostile  to  the  Church  of 
England ; all  men  wish  either  well  or  ill  to  our  univer- 
sities, and  to  our  municipal  corporations.  But  we 
know  not  why  the  being  biassed  by  such  predilections 
or  aversions,  should  be  more  pardonable  in  a moralist 
or  a legislator  than  it  would  be  in  a judge.  If  the 
dispute  were,  whether  the  Duke  of  Wellington  should 
be  called  upon  to  account  for  100,OOOZ.,  it  would  be  a 
perversion  of  justice  to  moot  the  question  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington’s  public  services,  and  to  decide  the  cause 
according  as  the  judge  approves,  or  not,  of  the  war  with 
Bonaparte,  or  Catholic  emancipation.  The  true  ques- 
tion would  be,  whether  the  money  in  the  Duke’s 
possession  was  his  or  not.  We  have  our  opinion, 
like  other  people,  on  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the 
clergy,  and  other  holders  of  endowments.  We  shall 
endeavour  to  forget  that  we  have  any.  General 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  3 


principles  of  justice  are  not  to  be  shaped  to  suit  the 
form  and  dimensions  of  some  particular  case  in  which 
the  judge  happens  to  take  an  interest. 

By  a foundation  or  endowment,  is  to  be  understood, 
money  or  money’s  worth  (most  commonly  land) 
assigned,  in  perpetuity  or  for  some  long  period,  for  a 
public  purpose  : meaning  by  public,  a purpose  which, 
whatever  it  may  be,  is  not  the  personal  use  and  enjoy- 
ment of  an  assignable  individual  or  individuals. 

The  foundations  which  exist  or  have  existed,  in  this 
or  other  countries,  are  exceedingly  multifarious.  There 
are  schools,  and  hospitals,  supported  by  assignments  of 
land  or  money ; there  are  also  almshouses,  and  other 
charitable  institutions  of  a nature  more  or  less  analo- 
gous. The  estates  of  monasteries  belong  to  the  class 
of  endowments  : so  do  those  of  our  universities  ; and 
the  lands  and  tithes  of  all  established  churches.  The 
estates  of  the  Corporation  of  London,  of  the  Fish- 
mongers’ and  Mercers’  Companies,  etc.,  are  also  public 
foundations,  and  differ  from  the  foregoing  only  in  being 
local,  not  national.  All  these  masses  of  property 
originally  belonged  to  some  individual  or  individuals, 
or  to  the  State ; and  were,  either  by  the  rightful 
owner  or  by  some  wrongful  possessor,  appropriated  to 
the  several  purposes  to  which  they  now,  really  or  in 
name,  continue  to  be  applied. 

It  may  seem  most  natural  to  begin  by  considering, 
whether  the  existence  of  endowments  is  desirable  at 
all ; if  this  be  settled  in  the  affirmative,  to  inquire  on 
what  conditions  they  should  be  allowed  to  be  consti- 
tuted ; and,  lastly,  how  the  Legislature  ought  to  deal 
with  them  after  they  are  formed.  But  the  problem, 
what  is  to  be  done  with  existing  endowments,  is  para- 
mount in  present  importance  to  the  question  of  pro- 
spective legislation.  It  is  preferable,  therefore,  even  at 
the  expense  of  an  inversion  of  the  logical  order  of  our 
propositions,  to  consider,  first,  whether  it  is  allowable 
for  the  State  to  change  the  appropriation  of  endow- 
ments, and,  afterwards,  what  is  the  limit  at  which  its 
interference  should  stop. 


1—2 


4 CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 

If  endowments  are  permitted,  it  is  implied  as  a 
necessary  condition,  that  the  State,  for  a time  at  least, 
shall  not  intermeddle  with  them.  The  property 
assigned  must  temporarily  be  sacred  to  the  purposes 
to  which  it  was  destined  by  its  owners.  The  founders 
of  the  London  University  would  not  have  subscribed 
their  money,  nor  would  Mr.  Drummond  have  estab- 
lished the  Oxford  Professorship  of  Political  Economy, 
if  they  had  thought  that  they  were  merely  raising  a 
sum  of  money  to  be  placed  at  the  disposal  of  Parlia- 
ment, or  of  the  Ministry  for  the  time  being.  Subject 
to  the  restrictions  which  we  shall  hereafter  suggest, 
the  control  of  the  founder,  over  the  disposition  of  the 
property,  should,  in  point  of  degree,  be  absolute.  But 
to  what  extent  should  it  reach  in  point  of  time  ? For 
how  long  should  this  unlimited  power  of  the  founder 
continue  ? 

To  this  question  the  answer  is  in  principle  so 
obvious,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  how  it  can  ever 
have  been  missed  by  any  unsophisticated  and  earnest 
inquirer.  The  sacredness  of  the  founder’s  assignment 
should  continue  during  his  own  life,  and  for  such 
longer  period  as  the  foresight  of  a prudent  man  may 
be  presumed  to  reach,  and  no  further.  We  do  not 
pretend  to  fix  the  exact  term  of  years ; perhaps  there 
is  no  necessity  for  its  being  accurately  fixed ; but  it 
evidently  should  be  but  a moderate  one.  For  such  a 
period,  it  conduces  to  the  ends  for  which  foundations 
ought  to  exist,  and  for  which  alone  they  can  ever 
rationally  have  been  intended,  that  they  should  remain 
undisturbed. 

All  beyond  this  is  to  make  the  dead,  judges  of  the 
exigencies  of  the  living ; to  erect,  not  merely  the  ends, 
but  the  means,  not  merely  the  speculative  opinions, 
but  the  practical  expedients,  of  a gone-by  age,  into  an 
irrevocable  law  for  the  present.  The  wisdom  of  our 
ancestors  was  mostly  a poor  wisdom  enough,  but  this 
is  not  even  following  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors ; for 
our  ancestors  did  not  bind  themselves  never  to  alter 
what  they  had  once  established.  Under  the  guise  of 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  5 


fulfilling  a bequest,  this  is  making  a dead  man’s  inten- 
tions for  a single  day,  a rule  for  subsequent  centuries, 
when  we  know  not  whether  he  himself  would  have 
made  it  a rule,  even  for  the  morrow. 

There  is  no  fact  in  history  which  posterity  will  find 
it  more  difficult  to  understand,  than  that  the  idea  of 
perpetuity,  and  that  of  any  of  the  contrivances  of  man, 
should  have  been  coupled  together  in  any  sane  mind  : 
that  it  has  been  believed,  nay,  clung  to  as  sacred  truth, 
and  has  formed  part  of  the  creed  of  whole  nations, 
that  a signification  of  the  will  of  a man,  ages  ago, 
could  impose  upon  all  mankind  now  and  for  ever  an 
obligation  of  obeying  him  : — that,  in  the  beginning  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  it  was  not  permitted  to  ques- 
tion this  doctrine  without  opprobrium : though  for 
hundreds  of  years  before,  a solemn  condemnation  of 
this  very  absurdity  had  been  incorporated  in  the  laws, 
and  familiar  to  every  judge  by  whom,  during  all  that 
period,  they  had  been  administered. 

During  the  last  four  hundred  years  or  thereabouts, 
in  England  and  Wales,  the  power  of  a landed  pro- 
prietor to  entail  his  land  in  favour  of  a particular  line 
of  his  descendants  has  been  narrowed  to  a very 
moderate  term  of  years  after  his  decease.  During  a 
similar  length  of  time,  it  has  been  laid  down  as  a 
maxim  of  the  common  law,  in  the  sweeping  terms  in 
which  technical  jurisprudence  delights,  that  ‘‘the  law 
abhors  perpetuities.”  It  is  now  a considerable  number 
of  years  since  a London  merchant*  having  by  testa- 
ment directed  that  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  should 
accumulate  for  two  generations,  and  then  devolve 
without  restriction  upon  a person  specified  ; this  will, 
rare  as  such  dispositions  might  be  expected  to  be, 
excited  so  much  disapprobation,  that  an  Act  of 
Parliament  was  passed,  expressly  to  enact  that  nothing 
of  the  same  sort  should  be  done  in  future. 

Is  it  of  consequence  to  the  public  by  whom  and  how 
private  property  is  inherited,  which,  whoever  possess 
it,  will  in  the  main  be  spent  in  ministering  to  one 
* Mr.  Thelusson,  ancestor  of  the  present  Lord  Rendlesham. 


6 CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


person’s  individual  wants  and  enjoyments — and  is  the 
use  made  of  a like  sum,  specifically  set  apart  for  the 
benefit  of  the  public,  or  of  an  indefinite  portion  of  the 
public,  a matter  in  which  the  nation  has  no  concern  ? 
Or  shall  we  say  it  is  supposed  by  King,  Lords,  and 
Commons,  and  the  Judges  of  the  land,  that  a man 
cannot  know  what  partition  of  his  property  among 
his  descendants,  thirty  years  hence,  will  be  for  the 
interest  of  the  descendants  themselves  ; but  that  he 
may  know  (though  he  have  scarcely  learnt  the  alpha- 
bet) how  children  may  be  best  educated  five  hundred 
years  hence  ; how  the  necessities  of  the  poor  may  then 
be  best  provided  for  ; what  branches  of  learning,  or  of 
what  is  called  learning,  it  will  be  most  important  to  culti- 
vate, and  by  what  body  of  men  it  will  be  desirable  that 
the  people  should  be  taught  religion,  to  the  end  of  time  ? 

Men  would  not  yield  up  their  understandings  to 
doctrines  like  these,  if  they  were  not  under  some  strong 
bias.  Such  thoughts  never  sprung  from  reason  and 
reflection.  The  cry  about  robbing  the  Church,  spolia- 
tion of  endowments,  etc.,  means  only  that  the  speaker 
likes  better  the  purposes  to  which  the  monies  are  now 
applied,  than  those  to  which  he  thinks  they  would  be 
applied  if  they  were  resumed  : — a feeling  which,  when 
founded  on  conviction,  is  entitled  to  respect ; but  were 
it  even  just,  we  do  not  see  why  a person  who  has  got 
at  his  conclusions  by  good  arguments,  should  defend 
them  by  bad.  It  may  be  very  unwise  to  alienate  the 
property  of  some  particular  foundation ; but  that  does 
not  make  it  robbery.  If  it  be  inexpedient,  prove  it  so  ; 
but  do  not  pretend  that  it  is  a crime  to  disobey  a man’s 
injunctions  who  has  been  dead  five  hundred  years. 
We  fear,  too,  that  this  zeal  for  the  inviolability  of 
endowments  proceeds  often  from  a feeling,  which  we 
find  it  more  difficult  to  bear  with — that  unreasoning 
instinct,  which  renders  those  whose  souls  are  buried  in 
their  acres,  or  pent  up  in  their  money,  bags,  partizans 
of  the  uti  possidetis  principle  in  all  things ; the  dread 
that  if  anything  is  taken  from  anybody,  everything 
will  be  taken  from  everybody ; a terror,  the  more 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  7 


passionate  because  it  is  vague,  at  seeing  violent  hands 
laid  upon  their  Dagon  money , though  it  be  but  to 
rescue  him  from  the  hands  of  those  who  have  filched 
him  away. 

That  this  is  the  real  source  of  much  of  the  horror 
which  is  felt  at  a bare  proposal  that  the  Legislature 
should  lay  a finger  upon  the  estates  of  a public  trust, 
although  it  be  to  restore  them  to  their  original  pur- 
poses, is  manifest  from  this ; that  the  same  persons  can 
witness  the  most  absolute  perversion  and  alienation  of 
the  endowment  from  its  destined  ends,  by  the  slow, 
silent  creeping-in  of  abuse  in  the  hands  of  the  trustees 
themselves,  and  not  feel  the  slightest  discomposure. 
Wherefore  ? — their  solicitude  was  not  for  the  objects 
of  the  endowment,  but  for  the  safety  and  sacredness  of 
“ vested  rights.”  They  dislike  the  example  of  searching 
in  a person’s  pocket,  although  it  be  for  stolen  goods. 
For  them,  it  is  enough  if  the  nine  points  of  the  law 
maintain  their  wonted  sanctity.  Those  they  are  sure 
they  have  on  their  side,  if  any  troublesome  questioner 
should,  in  their  turn,  incommode  them.  The  tenth 
point  is  much  more  intricate  and  obscure,  and  they 
have  not  half  so  much  faith  in  it. 

To  every  argument  tending  to  prove  the  utility  of 
the  Church  Establishment,  or  any  other  endowed 
public  institution,  unprejudiced  attention  is  due.  Like 
all  reasons  which  are  brought  to  show  the  inexpediency 
of  a proposed  innovation,  they  cannot  be  too  carefully 
weighed.  But  when  it  is  called  spoliation  of  property 
for  the  State  to  alter  a disposition  made  by  the  State 
itself,  or  by  an  individual  who  died  six  hundred  years 
ago,  we  answer,  that  no  person  ought  to  be  exercising 
rights  of  property  six  hundred  years  after  his  death  ; 
that  such  rights  of  property,  if  they  have  been  unwisely 
sanctioned  by  the  State,  ought  to  be  instantaneously 
put  an  end  to ; that  there  is  no  fear  of  robbing  a dead 
man  ; and  no  reasonable  man  who  gave  his  money 
when  living  for  the  benefit  of  the  community  would 
have  desired  that  his  mode  of  benefiting  the  community 
should  be  adhered  to  when  a better  could  be  found. 


8 CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


Thus  far  of  the  imaginary  rights  of  the  founder. 
Next,  as  to  those  rights  of  another  kind,  which,  in  the 
case  of  an  existing  endowment,  have  usually  sprung  up 
in  consequence  of  its  existence  ; the  life  interests  of 
the  actual  holders.  How  far  are  these  analogous  to 
what  are  deemed  rights  of  property  ? — that  is,  rights 
which  it  is  unjust  to  take  from  the  possessor  without 
his  consent,  or  without  giving  him  a full  equivalent. 

There  are  some  endowments  in  which  the  life 
interests  amount  to  rights  of  property  in  the  strictest 
sense.  These  are  such  as  are  created  for  the  applica- 
tion of  their  revenues  to  the  mere  use  and  enjoyment 
of  individuals  of  a particular  description  : to  give  pen- 
sions to  indigent  persons,  or  to  persons  devoted  to 
particular  pursuits  ; to  relieve  the  necessities,  or  reward 
the  services,  of  persons  of  a particular  kind,  by  sup- 
porting them  in  almshouses  or  hospitals. 

There  are  probably  but  a small  proportion  of  these 
endowments  which  are  fit  for  indefinite  continuance  : 
mankind  have  begun  to  find  out  that  the  mass  of 
poverty  is  increased,  not  diminished,  by  these  impotent 
attempts  to  keep  pace  with  it  by  mere  giving.  All, 
however,  who  are  actually  benefiting  by  such  institu- 
tions, have  a right  to  the  continuance  of  the  benefit, 
which  should  be  as  inviolable  as  the  right  of  the 
weaver  to  the  produce  of  his  loom.  They  have  it  by 
gift ; as  much  so  as  if  the  founder  were  alive,  and  had 
settled  it  upon  them  by  deed  under  hand  and  seal.  To 
take  it  from  an  existing  incumbent  would  be  an  ex-post- 
facto  law  of  the  worst  kind.  It  would  be  the  same 
sort  of  injustice  as  if,  in  abolishing  entails,  the  existing 
landed  proprietors  were  to  be  ejected  from  their  estates, 
on  the  plea  that  the  estates  had  come  to  them  by  entail 
from  their  predecessors. 

These  rights,  however,  are  never  anything  but  life 
interests.  Such  pensions  or  alms  are  not  hereditary. 
They  are  not  transmissible  by  will,  or  by  gift.  There 
is  no  assignable  person  standing  in  remainder  or 
reversion ; no  individual  specially  designated,  either  by 
law  or  custom,  to  succeed  to  a vacancy  as  it  arises. 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  9 


No  person  would  suffer  any  privation,  or  be  disap- 
pointed in  any  authorized  expectation  by  the  resump- 
tion of  the  endowment  at  the  death  of  the  existing 
incumbents.  There  is  no  loss  where  nobody  will  ever 
know  who  has  lost.  To  say  that  the  funds  cannot 
rightfully  be  resumed  at  the  expiration  of  the  life 
interests,  because  somebody  or  other  would  succeed  to 
them  if  they  continued  to  exist,  is  tantamount  to 
affirming  that  the  army  or  navy  can  never  be  reduced 
without  an  act  of  spoliation,  because,  if  they  were  kept 
up,  somebody,  to  be  sure,  would  be  made  a cadet  or  a 
midshipman,  who  otherwise  will  not.* 

But  there  is  another  and  a far  more  important  class 
of  endowments,  where  the  object  is  not  a provision  for 
individuals  of  whatsoever  description,  but  the  further- 
ance of  some  public  purpose  ; as  the  cultivation  of 
learning,  the  diffusion  of  religious  instruction,  or  the 
education  of  youth.  Such,  for  instance,  is  the  nature 
of  the  Church  property,  and  the  property  attached  to 
the  Universities  and  the  foundation  schools.  The  indi- 
viduals through  whose  hands  the  money  passes  never 
entered  into  the  founder’s  contemplation  otherwise 
than  as  mere  trustees  for  the  public  purpose.  The 
founder  of  a College  at  Oxford  did  not  bestow  his 
property  in  order  that  some  men  then  living,  and  an 
indefinite  series  of  successors  appointing  one  another 
in  a direct  line,  might  be  comfortably  fed  and  clothed. 
He,  we  may  presume,  intended  no  benefit  to  them, 
further  than  as  a necessary  means  to  the  end  he  had 
in  view — the  education  of  youth,  and  the  advancement 

* Charities  or  liberalities  of  this  kind  are  not  always 
unconditional ; they  may  be  burthened  with  the  performance 
of  some  duty.  Still,  if  the  duty  be  merely  an  incidental 
charge,  and  the  main  purpose  of  the  endowment  be  a pro- 
vision for  the  individuals,  the  Legislature,  though  it  may 
release  the  incumbents  from  the  performance  of  the  duty,  is 
not  at  liberty,  on  that  pretext,  to  make  them  forfeit  the 
right.  This  they  ought  to  retain  for  their  lives,  or  for  the 
term  of  years  for  which  it  was  conferred ; provided  they  hold 
themselves  in  readiness  to  fulfil  its  conditions,  so  far  as  they 
lawfully  may. 


10  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


of  learning.  The  like  is  true  of  the  Church  property  : 
it  is  held  in  trust,  for  the  spiritual  culture  of  the 
people  of  England.  The  Clergy  and  the  Universities 
are  not  proprietors,  nor  even  partly  trustees  and  partly 
proprietors : they  are  called  so,  we  know,  in  law,  and 
for  legal  purposes  may  be  so  called  without  impropriety ; 
but  moral  right  does  not  necessarily  wait  upon  the 
convenience  of  technical  classification.  The  trustees 
are  indeed,  at  present,  owing  to  the  supineness  of  the 
Legislature,  the  sole  tribunal  empowered  to  judge  of 
the  performance  of  the  trust:  but  it  will  scarcely  be 
pretended  that  the  money  is  made  over  to  them  for 
any  other  reason  than  because  they  are  charged  with 
the  trust, — or  that  it  is  not  an  implied  condition,  that 
they  shall  apply  every  shilling  of  it  with  an  exclusive 
regard  to  the  performance  of  the  duty  entrusted  to  the 
collective  body. 

Yet  of  persons  thus  situated,  persons  whose  interest 
in  the  foundation  is  entirely  subsidiary  and  subordi- 
nate, the  whole  of  whose  rights  exist  solely  as  the 
necessary  means  to  enable  them  to  perform  certain 
duties — it  is  currently  asserted,  and  in  the  tone  in 
which  men  affirm  a self-evident  moral  truth,  that  the 
endowments  of  the  Church  and  of  the  Universities  are 
their  property  ; to  deprive  them  of  which  would  be  as 
much  an  act  of  confiscation  as  to  rob  a landowner  of 
his  estate. 

Their  property ! In  what  system  of  legislative 
ethics,  or  even  of  positive  law,*  is  an  estate  in  the 
hands  of  trustees  the  property  of  the  trustees  ? It  is 
the  property  of  the  cestui  que  trust : of  the  person,  or 
body  of  persons,  for  whose  benefit  the  trust  is  created. 
This,  in  the  case  of  a national  endowment,  is  the  entire 
people. t 

* If  any  caviller  should  say  that  the  English  common  law 
is  an  exception,  inasmuch  as  trusts  are  not  recognised  or 
enforced  by  the  common  law  courts,  the  legal  estate  vesting 
in  the  trustee  ; we  answer  that  we  cannot  consider  anything 
as  law  which  does  not  actually  obtain  as  such,  but  is  super- 
seded by  the  contrary  mandates  of  the  rival  power  Equity. 

f In  the  case  of  endowments  which,  though  existing  for 


COEPOEATION  AND  CHUECH  PEOPEETY  11 


The  claims  of  the  Clergy,  and  of  the  various 
members  of  the  Universities,  to  the  retention  of 
jheir  present  incomes,  are  of  a widely  different  nature 
:rom  those  rights  which  are  intended  when  we  speak 
)f  the  inviolability  of  property ; and  stand  upon  a 
totally  different  foundation.  The  same  person  who  is 
i trustee,  is  also  a labourer.  He  is  to  be  paid  for  his 
services.  What  he  is  entitled  to,  is  his  wages  while 
ihose  services  are  required,  and  such  retiring  allow- 
ince  as  is  stipulated  in  his  engagement.  All  his  just 
>retensions  depend  on  the  terms  of  his  contract.  He 
vould  have  no  ground  of  complaint,  unless  on  the 
score  of  inhumanity,  if,  when  his  services  are  no 
onger  needed,  he  were  dismissed  without  a provision  ; 
mless  the  contract  by  which  he  was  engaged  had 
expressly  or  tacitly  provided  otherwise. 

It  is,  however,  the  fact,  that  in  the  majority  of  cases, 
md  particularly  in  the  case  of  the  Church  and  of  the 
Jniversities,  the  incumbents  hold  their  emoluments 
mder  an  implied  contract,  which  fully  entitles  them 
• o retain  the  whole  amount  during  the  term  of  their 
ives. 

If  the  army  were  to  be  remodelled,  or  to  be  reduced, 
md  the  whole  of  the  officers  changed,  or  a part  of 
hem  discarded ; and  if  these  were  thrown  upon  the 
vorld,  without  allowing  them  half-pay,  or  the  pension 
)f  their  rank,  there  would  not  (it  will  probably  be 


rablic  purposes,  are  not  national  but  local,  such  as  the  estates 
)f  the  City  of  London,  the  cestui  que  trust  is  not  the  entire 
>eople,  but  some  limited  portion  of  them,  namely,  those  who 
ire  directly  reached  by  the  benefit  intended  to  be  conferred, 
ro  apply  such  property  to  national  purposes,  without  the 
jonsent,  duly  signified,  of  the  fractional  part  of  the  nation 
vhich  is  interested  in  it,  might  be  wrong.  But  that  fractional 
lortion  is  generally  far  larger  than  the  body  which  the  law 
low  recognises  as  the  proprietor.  We  hold,  for  example,  that 
f the  Legislature  (as  it  ought)  should  unite  the  whole  of  the 
Metropolis  into  one  body  for  municipal  purposes,  the  estates 
>f  the  City  of  London,  and  probably  those  of  the  incorporated 
rades,  might  be  applied  to  the  benefit  of  that  collective  body 
without  injustice. 


12  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 

allowed)  be  any  spoliation  of  property.  But  it  mighl 
be  said,  with  justice,  that  there  would  be  a breach  o: 
an  implied  contract ; because  the  State  would  be 
defeating  an  expectation  raised  by  its  own  uniform 
practice.  Half-pay,  or  a pension,  is  certainly  noi 
promised  to  an  officer  when  he  enters  the  army ; he 
does  not  give  his  services  on  that  express  condition 
But  the  regulations  of  the  army  have  from  time 
immemorial  sanctioned  the  practice,  and  led  the 
officers  to  count  upon  it,  and  they  give  their  services 
on  that  understanding . 

The  case  of  the  clergyman  only  differs  from  that  o: 
the  military  officer  in  this,  that  the  one,  by  custom 
may  be  deprived  of  his  place,  but  retains  a part  of  its 
emoluments  ; the  other,  by  a different  custom,  retains 
his  place,  emoluments  and  all;  for  the  remainder  oj 
his  life.  If  this  were  the  practice  in  the  army,  then' 
instead  of  half-pay,  an  officer  would  never  retire  oi« 
less  than  full ; and  all  persons  would  see  that,  whether 
this  was  a good  practice  or  not,  it  ought  not  to  be 
abolished  retrospectively.  The  same  argument  holds 
good  in  the  case  of  the  clergyman. 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  where  the  emoluments  o! 
a public  officer  have,  by  the  uniform  practice  of  age^ 
been  considered  as  placed  out  of  the  control  of  the 
Legislature,  to  exercise  that  control  to  the  disadvan- 
tage of  the  individual,  without  giving  him  notid 
before  he  accepts  the  office,  is  an  injustice  to  him.  Ii 
gives  him  reasonable  ground  for  complaining  of  3 
breach  of  contract,  and  should  be  scrupulously  avoided 
even  if  it  were  not  something  more  than  merely  imj 
politic,  to  immolate  large  classes  of  persons  for  the 
pecuniary  gain  of  the  remainder ; and  most  unwise 
to  teach  a multitude  of  influential  persons  that  thei| 
only  means  of  maintaining  themselves  and  then 
families  in  their  accustomed  comfort  is  by  a successful 
resistance  to  political  reforms. 

In  return  for  the  continuation  of  the  life  interests 
after  releasing  the  incumbents  from  the  performance 
of  the  accompanying  duties,  the  State,  of  course. 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  13 

,vould  acquire  a right  to  the  services  of  the  individuals 
n any  other  mode  in  which  it  could  turn  them  to 
lse ; provided  it  were  one  suited  to  the  station  they 
lad  formerly  filled. 

We  have  endeavoured  to  make  as  clear  as  possible 
;he  real  grounds  of  the  moral  question  respecting  the 
nterference  of  the  Legislature  with  foundations.  We 
lave  affirmed  that  it  is  no  violation  of  any  right 
which  ought  to  exist  in  the  founder,  to  set  aside  his 
Impositions  many  years  after  his  decease  ; but  that 
where  individuals  have  been  allowed  to  acquire  bene- 
ficial interests  in  the  endowment,  these  ought  in 
general  to  be  respected  ; being,  in  most  cases,  either 
rights  of  property  for  life,  or  rights  for  life  by  virtue 
if  an  implied  contract.  But  with  the  reservation  of 
these  life  interests,  the  Legislature  is  at  liberty  to 
dispose,  at  its  discretion,  of  the  endowment,  after  that 
moderate  number  of  years  has  elapsed  from  the  date 
Df  its  formation,  beyond  which  the  foresight  of  an 
individual  cannot  reasonably  be  supposed  to  extend. 

We  feel  certain  that  the  conclusion  which  we  have 
just  stated  is  fully  made  out,  and  that  nothing  in  the 
nature  of  an  argument  capable  of  bearing  examination, 
can  be  brought  to  invalidate  it.  But  it  is  harder,  in 
some  cases,  to  convince  men’s  imagination  than  their 
reason  ; and  scarcely  anything  which  can  be  said  is 
enough  to  destroy  the  force  of  an  objection,  which  is 
yet  a mere  illusion  of  the  imagination,  by  the  aid  of 
a collective  name. 

Would  you  rob  the  Church  ? it  is  asked.  And  at 
the  sound  of  these  words  rise  up  images  of  rapine, 
violence,  plunder;  and  every  sentiment  of  repugnance 
which  would  be  excited  by  a proposal  to  take  away 
from  an  individual  the  earnings  of  his  toil  or  the 
inheritance  of  his  fathers,  becomes  heightened  in  the 
particular  case  by  the  added  idea  of  sacrilege. 

But  the  Church  1 Who  is  the  Church  ? Who  is  it 
that  we  desire  to  rob  ? Who  are  the  persons  whose 
property,  whose  rights  we  are  proposing  to  take  away  ? 


14  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PRO!  Y 


Not  the  clergy  ; from  them  we  do  not  propose  to 
take  anything.  To  every  man  who  now  benefits  by 
the  endowment,  we  have  said  that  we  would  leave 
his  entire  income ; at  least  until  the  State  shall  offer, 
as  the  purchase  money  of  his  services  in  some  other 
shape,  advantages  which  he  himself  shall  regard  as 
equivalent. 

But  if  not  the  clergy,  surely  we  are  not  proposing  to 
rob  the  laity : on  the  contrary,  they  are  robbed  now, 
if  the  fact  be,  that  the  application  of  the  money  to  its 
present  purpose  is  no  longer  advisable.  We  are  ex- 
horting the  laity  to  claim  their  property  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  clergy  ; who  are  not  the  Church,  but  only 
the  managing  members  of  the  association. 

Qui  tromjoe-t-on  id  ? asks  Figaro.  Qui  vole-t-on 
ici  ? may  well  be  asked.  What  man,  woman,  or  child, 
is  the  victim  of  this  robbery?  Who  suffers  by  the' 
robbery  when  everybody  robs  nobody?  But  though, 
no  man,  woman,  or  child  is  robbed,  the  Church  it’ 
seems  is  robbed.  What  follows?  That  the  Church 
may  be  robbed,  and  no  man,  woman,  or  child  be  the5 
worse  for  it.  If  this  be  so,  why,  in  Heaven’s  name, 
should  it  not  be  done  ? If  money  or  money’s  wTorth 
can  be  squeezed  out  of  an  abstraction,  we  would 
appropriate  it  without  scruple.  We  had  no  idea  that' 
the  region 

Where  entity  and  quiddity, 

The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,  fly, 

was  an  Eldorado  of  riches.  We  wish  all  other  ab- 
stract  ideas  had  as  ample  a patrimony.  It  is  fortunate 
that  their  estates  are  of  a less  volatile  and  airy  nature; 
than  themselves,  and  that  here  at  length  is  a “chirngera' 
bombinans  in  vacuo,”  which  lives  upon  something' 
more  substantial  than  “ secundas  intentiones.”  We! 
hold  all  such  entia  rationis  to  be  fair  game,  and 
their  possessions  a legitimate  subject  of  invasion  and 
conquest. 

Any  act  may  be  a crime,  if  giving  it  a bad  name 
could  make  it  so;  but  the  robbery  that  we  object  to 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  15 

must  be  something  more  than  robbing  a word.  The 
laws  of  property  were  made  for  the  protection  of 
human  beings,  and  not  of  phrases.  As  long  as  the 
bread  is  not  taken  from  any  of  our  fellow-creatures, 
we  care  not  though  the  whole  English  dictionary  had 
to  beg  in  the  streets.  Let  those  who  think  it  a robbery 
for  the  nation  to  resume  what  we  say  is  its  own,  tell 
us  whose  it  is;  let  them  inform  us,  what  human 
creatures  it  belongs  to  ; not  what  letters  and  syllables. 
The  alphabet  has  no  property,  and  if  it  bring  an 
action  for  damages  in  any  court  where  we  are  judge, 
it  shall  be  nonsuited. 

But  the  Church,  it  will  be  said,  is  a corporation  (or 
in  strictness  of  legal  language,  an  aggregate  of  many 
corporations) ; and  a corporation  is  a person,  and  may 
hold  property,  and  bring  an  action  at  law.  A corpora- 
tion never  dies,  but  is  like  a river,  ever  flowing,  yet 
always  the  same  ; while  it  empties  at  one  extremity 
it  fills  at  the  other,  and  preserves  its  identity  by  the 
continuity  of  its  existence.  Whatever  is  acquired  for 
the  corporation  belongs  to  the  corporation,  even  when 
all  its  members  have  died  out,  and  been  succeeded  by 
others.  So  London  stands  upon  the  Thames  as  it  did 
at  the  Conquest,  though  not  one  drop  of  water  be  the 
same. 

It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  remind  us  of  all  this.  It 
is  true  that  such  is  the  law.  We  admit  that  the  law 
can  call  a man  now  living,  and  a man  not  yet  born, 
the  same  person ; but  that  does  not  hinder  them  from 
being  different  men.  Having  declared  them  one  per- 
son, it  may  ordain  that  the  income  held  by  one  in  a 
certain  capacity,  shall  pass,  on  his  death,  to  the  other. 
There  is  nothing  at  all  inconceivable  in  the  idea ; so 
far  from  it,  that  such  is  actually  the  fact.  It  is  as 
simple  and  as  easy  as  to  say  that  a man’s  income  shall 
pass  to  the  man’s  own  son.  It  is  one  of  the  modes  in 
which  property  may  be  legally  transmitted.  It  is  part 
of  the  law  of  inheritance  and  succession. 

There  is  not  the  slightest  intention  entertained  of 
disputing  all  this.  The  law  is  precisely  as  it  is  said  to 


16  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


be : but  because  the  law  is  so,  does  it  follow  that  it 
ought  to  be  ? or  that  it  must  remain  protected  against 
amendment,  more  than  any  other  of  the  laws  which 
regulate  the  succession  to  property  ? 

All,  or  almost  all,  laws  give  rights  to  somebody. 
By  the  abrogation  of  any,  or  almost  any  laws,  some 
rights  would  be  prevented  from  existing.  But  because 
a law  has  once  been  enacted,  ought  it  to  subsist  for 
ever  ? We  know  that  there  are  some  alterations  in 
the  law,  which  would  be,  morally  speaking,  infringe- 
ments of  property.  What  makes  them  so?  Not, 
surely,  the  mere  fact,  inseparable  from  the  repeal 
of  any  law  whatever,  that  ihe  class  of  rights  which 
it  created  ceases  to  exist.  Where,  then,  lies  the  dis- 
tinction ? There  is  no  difficulty  about  it,  nor  ever 
was.  The  difference  is,  that  some  laws  cannot  be 
altered  without  painfully  frustrating  existing  and 
authorized  expectations ; for  which,  therefore,  com- 
pensation is  in  all  or  most  cases  due.  Now,  in  the 
case  of  church  property  no  authorized  expectations 
are  defeated,  unless  those  of  existing  incumbents  : this 
evil  is  prevented  if  the  life  interests  of  the  incumbents 
are  preserved  to  them.*  To  make  the  semblance  of 
an  injury  where  there  is  none,  nothing  better  can  be 
thought  of  than  to  lump  together  the  living  incum- 
bents and  their  unborn  successors  into  one  undivided 
mass,  call  the  entire  heap  one  person,  and  pretend 
that  not  to  give  to  the  unborn  man,  is  to  take  from 
the  living  one. 

To  resume  endowments  would  incontestably  be  to 
set  aside,  by  an  act  of  the  legislature,  a disposition  of 
property  lawfully  made.  It  would  be  a change  in  the 
laws ; but  a change  which  is  allowable,  if  to  alter  a 
disposition  of  law  be  ever  allowable.  The  fact  of  its 

* To  make  the  proposition  absolutely  unassailable,  instead 
of  u existing  incumbents,”  it  should  perhaps  be  said,  persons 
actually  in  orders.  All  authorized  expectations  of  unbeneficed 
expectants  would  be  satisfied  by  postponing  the  resumption 
for  a sufficient  number  of  years  to  enable  their  expectation,  if 
well  grounded,  to  become  possession. 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  17 


being  a disposition  of  property  can  make  no  difference. 
Property  surely  may  be  appropriated  by  law,  to  pur- 
poses from  which  it  may  be  highly  desirable  that  it 
should  be  alienated.  Much  property  is  set  apart  by 
the  laws  of  all  idolatrous  nations,  for  the  special  use 
and  service  of  their  gods.  Large  revenues  are  annually 
expended  in  offerings  to  those  gods.  To  resume  those 
revenues  would  manifestly  be  robbing  Baal ; they  are 
his  by  law  : law  cannot  give  a clearer  right  of  pro- 
perty than  he  has  to  them.  A lawyer,  addressing  a 
court  of  justice,  would  have  nothing  to  object  to  this 
argument:  but  a moralist,  or  a legislator,  might  say, 
that  the  revenues  were  of  no  use  to  Baal,  and  that  he 
would  never  miss  them. 

We,  of  this  generation,  are  not  addicted  to  falling 
down  before  a Baal  of  brass  or  stone  : the  idols  we 
worship  are  abstract  terms : the  divinities  to  whom  we 
render  up  our  substance  are  personifications.  Besides 
our  duties  to  our  fellow-countrymen,  we  owe  duties  to 
the  constitution;  privileges  which  landlords  or  mer- 
chants have  no  claim  to,  must  be  granted  to  agri- 
cultures,  or  trade : and  when  every  clergyman  has 
received  the  last  halfpenny  of  his  dues  and  expecta- 
tions, there  remain  rights  of  the  Church , which  it 
would  be  sacrilege  to  violate. 

To  all  such  rights  we  confess  our  indifference.  The 
only  moral  duties  which  we  are  conscious  of,  are 
towards  living  beings,  either  present  or  to  come  ; who 
can  be  in  some  way  better  for  what  we  do  or  forbear. 
When  we  have  done  our  duty  to  all  these,  we  feel  easy 
in  our  minds,  and  sleep  with  an  untroubled  conscience 
the  sleep  of  the  just ; a sleep  which  the  groans  of  no 
plundered  abstraction  are  loud  enough  to  disturb. 

If  the  case  were  not  already  far  more  than  suffi- 
ciently made  out,  it  would  be  pertinent  to  observe  that 
the  Church  of  England,  least  of  all  religious  establish- 
ments, is  entitled  to  dispute  the  power  of  the  legisla- 
ture to  alter  the  destination  of  endowments,  since  it 
owes  to  the  exercise  of  such  a power  all  its  own 
possessions. 


2 


18  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


The  Roman  Catholic  Church  derived  its  property 
from  an  earlier  source  than  any  of  the  existing 
governments  of  Christendom  : it  is  moreover  a society 
within  itself,  which  existed  anterior  to  the  State, 
which  is  organized  independently  of  the  State,  and  no 
changes  in  the  State  can  affect  its  identity,  or  its  con- 
stitution. Its  endowments,  too,  or  a great  part  of 
them,  came  into  its  hands  not  for  public  purposes  but 
for  private  ; not  in  trust,  but  by  fair  bargain  and  sale ; 
the  donor  taking  out  the  value  in  masses  for  his 
private  salvation ; thereby,  as  he  hoped,  effecting  an 
earlier  liberation  of  his  individual  soul  from  purgatory. 
If  any  ecclesiastical  establishment,  therefore,  could  be 
entitled  to  deem  itself  ill-used  in  having  its  property 
taken  away  from  it,  this  might.  Not  so  the  Church  of 
England  ; she,  from  her  origin,  never  was  anything 
but  a state  church ; all  the  property  she  ever  had,  the 
State  first  took  from  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  ;* 
exercising  therein  a just  and  proper  attribute  of 
sovereignty  ; but  perpetrating  a flagrant  wrong  in 
paying  little  or  no  regard  to  life  interests,  and  consign- 
ing the  incumbents  to  penury.  The  corporation  which 
was  then  turned  out  of  house  and  home,  still  exists, 
and  is  in  every  respect  the  same  as  before  : but  if  the 
Church  of  England  were  separated  from  the  State,  its 
identity  as  a corporation  would  be  gone  : the  present 
religious  society  would  be  dissolved,  and  a new  one 
formed,  under  different  rules  and  a different  principle 
of  government  ; from  a monarchy  it  would  be  changed 
to  a republic,  from  a system  of  nomination  to  one  of 
election.  A Catholic  bishop  can  look  out  upon  the 
fair  and  broad  domains  of  his  Protestant  substitute, 
and  say,  all  this  would  have  been  mine.  But  let  the 

* We  know  it  is  contended  that  there  was  no  transfer  of 
property  at  the  Reformation  from  one  church  to  another,  but 
that  it  was  still  the  same  church,  which  had  merely  changed  a 
portion  of  its  opinions  : but  were  not  many  prelates  expelled 
from  their  sees,  and  parochial  clergy  from  their  benefices  ? 
And  was  not  this  done  by  the  Act  of  Parliament  which 
imposed  the  oath  of  supremacy,  and  not  by  the  canonical 
authority  of  any  merely  ecclesiastical  tribunal  ? 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  19 


State  endowments  be  once  withdrawn  from  the  Church 
of  England,  her  mitred  but  unpalaced  prelates  will 
indulge  in  no  such  delusion  : nobody,  we  suppose, 
will  then  stand  up  for  the  simoniacal  abuses  of  lay- 
patronage  and  conges  d'elire ; and  the  divine  who  for 
his  piety  and  learning  shall  have  been  elected  rector 
of  Stanhope,  or  bishop  of  Winchester,  if  he  ever  cast 
a wistful  thought  towards  the  pristine  appendages  of 
his  dignity,  will  check  it  by  the  reflexion,  that  they 
would  not  have  belonged  to  him,  but  to  some  political 
tool,  some  tutor  or  chaplain  of  a minister,  or  the 
stupidest  son  of  some  squirearchal  house.  A Catholic 
prelate,  no  doubt,  believes  at  heart  that  he  has  been 
robbed ; as  the  descendants  of  the  Pretender  would 
have  believed  to  the  latest  generation,  that  they  ought 
to  be  Kings  of  England.  But  an  English  Protestant 
bishop  who  (after  his  church,  in  ceasing  to  receive 
state  pay,  had  ceased  also  to  be  fashioned  as  a state 
tool)  should  still  fancy  that  he  was  the  person  losing 
by  the  abolition  of  the  salary,  must  be  strangely 
ignorant  of  the  history  of  England’s  political  religion, 
as  well  as  of  something  else  which  would  have  taught 
him  that  a person  honestly  selected  to  serve  God,  was 
not  a likely  individual  to  have  been  appointed  high- 
priest  of  Mammon. 

Considering  it,  then,  as  indisputable,  that  endow- 
ments, after  a certain  lapse  of  time,  may,  at  the  dis- 
cretion of  the  legislature,  be  diverted  from  their 
original  purposes ; it  remains  to  consider  by  what 
principles  or  rules  the  legislature  is  bound  to  govern 
itself  in  the  exercise  of  this  discretion. 

We  would  prescribe  but  one  rule : it  is  somewhat 
general,  but  sufficient  to  indicate  the  spirit  in  which 
the  control  of  the  legislature  ought  to  be  exerted. 
When  a resolution  has  been  taken  (which  should 
never  be,  except  on  strong  grounds)  to  alter  the 
appropriation  of  an  endowment  ; the  first  object  should 
be  to  employ  it  usefully;  the  second,  to  depart  as 
little  from  the  original  purpose  of  the  foundation,  as 

2—2 


20  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


is  consistent  with  that  primary  object.  The  endeavour 
should  be,  even  in  altering  the  disposition  of  the 
founder,  to  carry  into  effect  as  much  of  his  intention 
as  it  is  possible  to  realize  without  too  great  a sacrifice 
of  substantial  utility. 

This  limitation  of  the  discretionary  power  of  inter- 
ference residing  in  the  legislature,  would  meet,  we 
suspect,  with  as  much  resistance  (though  from  a very 
different  sort  of  persons)  as  the  discretionary  power 
itself.  It  would  be  objected  to  by  some,  because  they 
are  desirous  to  confiscate  the  existing  endowments 
towards  paying  off  the  national  debt,  or  defraying  the 
current  expenses  of  the  State  : by  others,  because  they 
deem  foundations  altogether  to  be  rather  mischievous 
than  useful,  and  the  intentions  of  founders  to  be 
undeserving  of  any  regard.  This  last  opinion  is  the 
more  entitled  to  notice,  as  among  its  supporters  is  to 
be  numbered  the  great  and  good  Turgot.  That 
eminently  wise  man  thought  so  unfavourably  of  the 
purposes  for  which  endowments  are  usually  made, 
and  of  the  average  intelligence  of  the  founders,  that 
he  was  an  enemy  to  foundations  altogether. 

Notwithstanding  our  deep  reverence  for  this  illus- 
trious man,  and  the  great  weight  which  is  due  to  his 
sentiments  on  all  subjects  which  he  had  maturely 
considered,  we  must  regard  his  opinion  on  this  sub- 
ject, as  one  of  what  it  is  now  allowable  to  call  the 
prejudices  of  his  age.  The  wisest  person  is  not  safe 
from  the  liability  to  mistake  for  good  the  reverse  of 
some  inveterate  and  grievous  ill.  The  clearer  his 
discernment  of  existing  evils,  and  the  more  absolutely 
his  whole  soul  is  engaged  in  the  contest  against  them, 
the  more  danger  that  the  mischiefs  which  chiefly 
occupy  his  own  thoughts,  should  render  him  insensible 
to  their  contraries,  and  that  in  guarding  one  side  he 
should  leave  the  other  uncovered.  If  Turgot  did  not 
wholly  escape  this  error,  which  was  common  to  all  the 
philosophers  of  his  time,  ample  allowance  may  be 
justly  claimed  both  for  him  and  for  them.  It  is  not 
the  least  of  the  mischiefs  of  our  mischievous  pre- 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  21 


jndices,  that  in  their  decline  they  raise  up  counter- 
prejudices, and  that  the  human  mind  must  oscillate 
for  a time  between  opposite  extremes,  before  it  can 
settle  quietly  in  the  middle.  The  prejudices  of  the 
French  philosophers  were  such  as  it  was  natural  should 
exist,  when  all  established  institutions  were  in  the 
very  last  stage  of  decay  and  decrepitude,  preparatory 
to  the  catastrophe  by  which,  soon  after,  they  were 
swept  away  : — when  whatever  was  meant  to  transmit 
light,  had  become  a curtain  to  keep  it  out,  and  what- 
ever was  designed  for  protection  of  society,  had  turned 
to  preying  upon  society ; — when  every  trust  which 
had  been  reposed  in  individuals  for  the  benefit  of  the 
species,  had  degenerated  into  a selfish  job,  and  the 
canker  had  eaten  so  deeply  into  the  heart  of  civiliza- 
tion, that  the  greatest  genius  of  his  time  deliberately 
preferred  the  condition  of  a naked  savage. 

At  the  head  of  the  foundations  which  existed  in  the 
time  of  Turgot  was  the  Catholic  hierarchy,  then  almost 
effete  ; which  had  become  irreconcilably  hostile  to  the 
progress  of  the  human  mind,  because  that  progress 
was  no  longer  compatible  with  belief  in  its  tenets  ; and 
which,  to  stand  its  ground  against  the  advance  of 
incredulity,  had  been  driven  to  knit  itself  closely  with 
the  temporal  despotism,  to  which  it  had  once  been  a sub- 
stantial, and  the  only  existing,  impediment  and  con- 
trol. After  this  came  monastic  bodies,  constituted 
ostensibly  for  purposes  which  derived  their  value  chiefly 
from  superstition,  and  now  not  even  fulfilling  what 
they  professed  ; bodies,  of  most  of  which  the  very 
existence  had  become  one  vast  and  continued  impos- 
ture. Next  came  universities  and  academical  institu- 
tions, which  had  once  taught  all  that  was  then  known ; 
but  having  ever  since  indulged  their  ease  by  remaining 
stationary,  found  it  for  their  interest  that  knowledge 
should  do  so  too — institutions  for  education,  which 
kept  a century  behind  the  community  they  affected  to 
educate ; who,  when  Descartes  appeared,  publicly 
censured  him  for  differing  from  Aristotle  ; and  when 
Newton  appeared,  anathematized  him  for  differing 


22  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


from  Descartes.  There  were  hospitals  which  killed 
more  of  their  unhappy  patients  than  they  cured,  and 
charities,  of  which  the  superintendents,  like  the 
licentiate  in  Gil  Bias,  got  rich  by  taking  care  of  the 
affairs  of  the  poor : or  which  at  best  made  twenty 
beggars,  by  giving,  or  pretending  to  give,  a miserable 
and  dependent  pittance  to  one. 

The  foundations,  therefore,  were  among  the  grossest 
and  most  conspicuous  of  the  familiar  abuses  of  the 
time  ; and  beneath  their  shade  flourished  and  multi- 
plied large  classes  of  men,  by  interest  and  habit  the 
protectors  of  all  abuses  whatsoever.  "What  wonder 
that  a life  spent  in  practical  struggles  against  abuses 
should  have  strongly  prepossessed  Turgot  against 
foundations  in  general.  Yet  the  evils  existed,  not 
because  there  were  foundations,  but  because  those 
foundations  were  perpetuities,  and  because  provision 
was  not  made  for  their  continual  modification,  to  meet 
the  wants  of  each  successive  age. 

The  opinion  of  Turgot  was  sufficiently  in  accordance 
with  the  prevailing  philosophy  of  his  time.  It  is  rare 
that  the  same  heads  and  the  same  hands  excel  both  in 
pulling  down  and  in  building  up.  The  work  of  urgency 
in  those  days  was  to  make  war  against  evil : this  the 
philosophers  did,  and  the  negation  of  evil  was  nearly 
all  the  good  which  their  philosophy  provided  for. 
They  seem  to  have  conceived  the  perfection  of  political 
society  to  be  reached,  if  man  could  but  be  compelled  to 
abstain  from  injuring  man ; not  considering  that  men 
need  help  as  well  as  forbearance,  and  that  Nature  is  to 
the  greater  number  a severer  taskmaster  even  than 
man  is  to  man.  They  left  each  individual  to  fight  his 
own  battle  against  fate  and  necessity,  with  little  aid 
from  his  fellow-men,  save  what  he,  of  his  own  spon- 
taneous seeking,  might  purchase  in  open  market  and 
pay  for. 

If  this  be  a just  estimate  of  the  exigencies  of  human 
society  ; if  man  requires  nothing  from  man,  except  to 
be  guarded  against  molestation  ; undoubtedly  founda- 
tions, and  many  other  things,  are  great  absurdities. 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  23 


But  we  may  conceive  a people,  perfectly  exempt  from 
oppression  by  their  government,  amply  protected  by 
it,  both  against  foreign  enemies  and  against  force  or 
fraud  as  between  its  own  citizens  ; we  may  conceive 
all  this  secured,  as  far  at  least  as  institutions  can 
secure  it,  and  yet  the  people  in  an  abject  state  of 
degradation,  both  physical  and  mental. 

The  primary  and  perennial  sources  of  all  social  evil, 
are  ignorance  and  want  of  culture.  These  are  not 
reached  by  the  best  contrived  system  of  political 
checks,  necessary  as  such  checks  are  for  other  pur- 
poses. There  is  also  an  unfortunate  peculiarity 
attending  these  evils.  Of  all  calamities,  they  are 
those  of  which  the  persons  suffering  from  them  are 
apt  to  be  least  aware.  Of  their  bodily  wants  and 
ailments  mankind  are  generally  conscious ; but  the 
want  of  the  mind,  the  want  of  being  wiser  and  better, 
is  in  the  far  greater  number  of  cases  unfelt : some  of 
its  disastrous  consequences  are  felt,  but  are  ascribed 
to  any  imaginable  cause  except  the  true  one.  This 
want  has  also  the  property  of  disguising  from  man- 
kind not  only  itself,  but  the  most  eligible  means 
of  providing  even  for  the  wants  of  which  they  are 
conscious. 

On  what,  th^n,  have  mankind  depended,  on  what 
must  they  continue  to  be  dependent,  for  the  removal 
of  their  ignorance  and  of  their  defect  of  culture  ? 
Mainly,  on  the  unremitting  exertions  of  the  more 
instructed  and  cultivated,  whether  in  the  position 
of  the  government  or  in  a private  station,  to  awaken 
in  their  minds  a consciousness  of  this  want,  and  to 
facilitate  to  them  the  means  of  supplying  it.  The  instru- 
ments of  this  work  are  not  merely  schools  and  colleges, 
but  every  means  by  which  the  people  can  be  reached, 
either  through  their  intellects  or  their  sensibilities : 
from  preaching  and  popular  writing,  to  national 
galleries,  theatres,  and  public  games. 

Here,  then,  is  a wide  field  of  usefulness  open  for 
foundations  ; and  in  point  of  fact,  they  have  been 
destined  for  such  purposes  oftener  than  for  any  other. 


24  COEPOEATION  AND  CHUECH  PEOPEETY 


We  are  of  opinion  that  such  endowments  are  deserving 
of  encouragement,  where  a sufficiency  do  not  already 
exist ; and  that  their  funds  ought  not  to  be  appropriated 
in  another  manner,  as  long  as  any  opening  remains  for 
their  useful  application  in  this. 

A doctrine  is  indeed  abroad,  and  has  been  sanctioned 
by  many  high  authorities,  among  others  by  Adam 
Smith,  that  endowed  establishments,  for  education  or 
other  public  purposes,  are  a mere  premium  upon  idle- 
ness and  inefficiency.  Undoubtedly  they  are  so,  when 
it  is  nobody’s  business  to  see  that  the  receivers  of  the 
endowment  do  their  duty ; when  (what  is  more)  every 
attempt  to  regulate,  or  so  much  as  to  know  (further 
than  the  interested  parties  choose  to  make  it  known) 
the  manner  in  which  the  funds  are  employed,  and  the 
nature  and  extent  of  the  service  rendered  in  considera- 
tion of  them,  is  resented  and  exclaimed  against  as  an 
interference  with  the  inviolability  of  private  property. 
That  this  is  the  condition  of  most  of  our  own  endowed 
establishments  is  too  true.*  But  instead  of  fixing 
our  eyes  exclusively  upon  what  is  nearest  to  us,  let 
us  turn  them  towards  the  endowed  Universities  of 
France  and  Germany,  and  mark  if  those  are  places  of 
idleness  and  inefficiency.  Let  us  see  whether,  where 
the  endowment  proceeds  from  the  governments  them- 
selves, and  where  the  governments  do  not,  as  here, 
leave  it  optional  whether  that  which  is  promised  and 
paid  for  shall  or  shall  not  be  done,  it  be  not  found 
that,  notwithstanding  the  acknowledged  defects  of 
those  governments,  the  education  given  is  the  best 
which  the  age  and  country  can  supply.  Let  us  even 
look  at  home,  and  examine  whether,  with  all  the 
grievous  abuses  of  the  endowed  seminaries  of  Great 
Britain,  they  are,  after  all,  worse  than,  or  even  so  bad 
as,  almost  all  our  other  places  of  education  ? We  may 
ask,  whether  the  desire  to  gain  as  much  money  with 
as  little  labour  as  is  consistent  with  saving  appearances, 
be  peculiar  to  the  endowed  teachers  ? Whether  the 
plan  of  nineteen-twentieths  of  our  unendowed  schools, 
* Happily  now  no  longer  so  [1859]. 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  25 


be  not  an  organized  system  of  charlatanerie  for  impos- 
ing upon  the  ignorance  of  parents  ? Whether  parents 
do,  in  point  of  fact,  prove  themselves  as  solicitous,  and 
as  well  qualified,  to  judge  rightly  of  the  merits  of  places 
of  education,  as  the  theory  of  Adam  Smith  supposes  ? 
Whether  the  truth  be  not,  that,  for  the  most  part,  they 
bestow  very  little  thought  upon  the  matter ; or  if  they 
do,  show  themselves  in  general  the  ready  dupes  of  the 
very  shallowest  artifices?  Whether  the  necessity  of 
keeping  parents  in  good  humour  does  not  too  often, 
instead  of  rendering  the  education  better,  render  it 
worse  ; the  real  ends  of  instruction  being  sacrificed, 
not  solely  (as  would  otherwise  be  the  case)  to  the  ease 
of  the  teacher,  but  to  that,  and  also  to  the  additional 
positive  vices  of  clap-trap  and  lip-proficiency  ? We 
may  ask  whether  it  is  not  matter  of  experience,  that  a 
schoolmaster  who  endeavours  really  to  educate,  instead 
of  endeavouring  only  to  seem  to  educate,  and  laying 
himself  out  for  the  suffrages  of  those  who  never  look 
below  the  surface,  and  only  for  an  instant  at  that,  is 
almost  sure,  unless  he  have  the  genius  and  the  ardour 
of  a Pestalozzi,  to  make  a losing  speculation  ? Let  us 
do  what  we  may,  it  will  be  the  study  of  the  merely 
trading  schoolmaster  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  the 
parents,  be  that  level  high  or  low ; as  it  is  of  the 
trading  author,  to  write  down  to  the  level  of  his 
readers.  And  in  the  one  shape  as  in  the  other,  it  is 
in  all  times  and  in  all  places  indispensable,  that  en- 
lightened individuals  and  enlightened  governments 
.should,  from  other  motives  than  that  of  pecuniary 
gain,  bestir  themselves  to  provide  (though  by  no  means 
forcibly  to  impose)  that  good  and  wholesome  food  for 
the  wants  of  the  mind,  for  which  the  competition  of  the 
mere  trading  market  affords  in  general  so  indifferent 
i substitute. 

It  may  be  said,  however,  that  where  there  is  a wise 
government,  and  one  which  has  the  confidence  of  the 
oeople,  whatever  expense  it  may  be  requisite  either  to 
lefray  or  to  advance  for  national  education,  or  any 
)ther  of  the  purposes  for  which  endowments  exist, 


26  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


ought  rather  to  be  furnished  by  the  government,  and 
paid  out  of  the  taxes  ; the  government  being  probably 
a better  judge  of  good  education  than  an  average  man 
— even  an  average  founder. 

To  this  it  may  be  answered,  that  the  full  benefit  of 
the  superior  wisdom  of  the  government  would  be  ob- 
tained, in  the  case  of  old  foundations,  by  that  dis- 
cretionary power  of  modifying  the  dispositions  of  the 
founder,  which  ought  to  be  exerted  by  the  government 
as  often  as  the  purposes  of  the  foundation  require. 
We  certainly  agree,  that  if  the  government  is  so  wise, 
and  if  the  people  rely  so  implicitly  on  its  wisdom,  as  to 
find  money  out  of  the  taxes  for  all  the  purposes  of 
utility  to  which  they  could  have  applied  the  endow- 
ment, it  is  of  no  consequence  whether  the  endowment 
be  alienated  or  not  ; the  alienation  is  merely  nominal. 
But  all  know  how  far  the  fact  at  present  differs  from 
any  such  supposition.  It  is  impossible  to  be  assured 
that  the  people  will  be  willing  to  be  taxed  for  every 
purpose  of  moral  and  intellectual  improvement  for 
which  funds  may  be  required.  But  if  there  were  a 
fund  specially  set  apart,  which  had  never  come  from 
the  people’s  pockets  at  all,  which  was  given  to  them  in 
trust  for  the  purpose  of  education,  and  which  it  was 
considered  improper  to  divert  to  any  other  employment  ' 
while  it  could  be  usefully  devoted  to  that,  the  people  . 
would  probably  be  always  willing  to  have  it  applied  to 
that  purpose.  There  is  such  a fund,  and  it  consists  of 
the  national  endowments. 

If,  again,  it  be  said,  that  as  the  people  grow  more  * 
enlightened,  they  will  become  more  able  to  appreciate,  j 
and  more  willing  to  pay  for,  good  instruction  ; that  the  * 
competition  of  the  market  will  become  more  and  more  ■ 
adequate  to  provide  good  education,  and  endowed , 
establishments  will  be  less  and  less  necessary,  we  \ 
admit  the  fact.  And  it  might  be  said  with  equal 
truth,  that  as  the  people  improve  there  will  be  less  and 
less  necessity  for  penal  laws.  But  penal  laws  are  one 
among  the  indispensable  means  of  bringing  about  this 
very  improvement ; and  in  like  manner,  if  the  people 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  27 


ever  become  sufficiently  enlightened  to  be  able  to  do 
without  educational  endowments,  it  will  be  because 
those  endowments  will  have  been  preserved,  and 
prized,  and  made  efficient  for  their  proper  purpose. 
It  is  only  by  a right  use  of  endowments  that  a people 
can  be  raised  above  the  need  of  them. 

So  much  with  regard  to  old  endowments ; the 
application  of  which,  to  the  purpose  for  which  they 
were  destined,  ought  to  be  as  completely  under  the 
control  of  the  government  as  if  the  funds  were  taken 
directly  out  of  the  taxes.  But  in  addition  to  these  old 
endowments,  the  liberty  of  forming  new  ones,  for 
education  and  mental  culture  in  all  shapes,  seems  to 
us  of  considerable  importance ; and  a limited  number 
of  years  should,  we  think,  be  allowed,  during  which 
the  disposition  of  the  founder  should  undergo  no 
alteration. 

We  deem  this  advisable,  simply  because  govern- 
ments are  fallible  ; and,  as  they  have  ample  means 
both  of  providing  and  of  recommending  the  education 
they  deem  best,  should  not  be  allowed  to  prevent  other 
people  from  doing  the  same.  No  government  is 
entitled  (further  than  is  implied  in  the  very  act  of 
governing)  to  make  its  own  opinion  the  measure  of 
everything  which  is  useful  and  true.  A perfect  govern- 
ment would,  no  doubt,  be  always  under  the  guidance 
of  the  wisest  members  of  the  community.  But  no 
government  can  unite  all  the  wisdom  which  is  in  all 
the  members  of  the  community  taken  together ; much 
less  can  a mere  majority  in  a legislative  body.  A 
nation  ought  not  to  place  its  entire  stake  upon  the 
wisdom  of  one  man,  or  one  body  of  men,  and  to 
deprive  all  other  intellect  and  virtue  of  a fair  field  of 
usefulness,  whenever  they  cannot  be  made  to  square 
exactly  with  the  intellect  and  virtue  of  that  man  or 
body.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  a community,  as  well  as  of 
an  individual,  to  beware  of  being  one-sided  : the  more 
chances  it  gives  itself,  the  greater  the  probability  that 
some  will  succeed.  A government,  when  properly 
constituted,  should  be  allowed  the  greatest  possible 


28  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


facilities  for  what  itself  deems  good  ; but  the  smallest 
for  preventing  the  good  which  may  chance  to  come 
from  elsewhere.  This  will  not  be  disputed  if  the 
government  be  a monarchy  or  an  aristocracy : it  is 
quite  equally  true  when  the  constitution  is  popular. 
The  disapprobation  of  the  government,  in  that  case, 
means  the  disapprobation  of  the  majority  : and  where 
the  opinion  of  the  majority  gives  the  law,  there,  above 
all,  it  is  eminently  the  interest  of  the  majority,  that 
minorities  should  have  fair  play.  Sinister  interest 
indeed  is  often  found  in  a minority,  but  so,  it  must  also 
be  remembered,  is  truth  : at  its  original  appearance  it 
must  be  so.  All  improvements,  either  in  opinion  or 
practice,  must  be  in  a minority  at  first. 

We  deem  it  important  that  individuals  should  have 
it  in  their  power  to  enable  good  schooling,  good 
writing,  good  preaching,  or  any  other  course  of  good 
instruction,  to  be  carried  on  for  a certain  number  of 
years  at  a pecuniary  loss.  By  that  time,  if  the  people 
are  intelligent,  and  the  government  wisely  constituted, 
the  institution  will  probably  be  capable  of  supporting 
itself,  or  the  government  will  be  willing  to  adopt  all 
that  is  good  in  it,  for  the  improvement  of  the  institu- 
tions which  are  under  the  public  care.  For,  that  the 
people  can  see  what  is  for  their  good,  when  it  has  long 
been  shown  them,  is  commonly  true  ; that  they  can 
foresee  it — seldom. 

Endowments,  again,  are  a natural  and  convenient 
mode  of  providing  for  the  support  of  establishments 
which  are  interesting  only  to  a peculiar  class,  and  for 
which,  therefore,  it  might  be  improper  to  tax  all  the 
members  of  the  community.  Such,  for  instance,  are 
colleges  for  the  professional  instruction  of  the  clergy  of 
a sect ; as  Maynooth,  Manchester,  or  Highbury. 

If,  then,  it  be  in  truth  desirable  that  foundations 
should  exist,  which  we  think  is  clear  from  the  fore- 
going and  many  other  considerations  ; it  would  seem 
to  follow,  as  a natural  consequence,  that  the  appropria- 
tion made  by  the  founder  should  not  be  set  aside,  save 
in  so  far  as  paramount  reasons  of  utility  require ; that 


COEPOEATION  AND  CHUECH  PEOPEETY  29 

ais  design  should  be  no  further  departed  from  than  he 
limself  would  probably  have  approved,  if  he  had  lived 
50  the  present  time,  and  participated  to  a reasonable 
legree  in  its  best  ideas.  If  foundations  deserve  to  be 
encouraged,  it  is  desirable  to  reward  the  liberality  of 
he  founder,  by  allowing  to  works  of  usefulness 
though  not  a perpetuity)  as  prolonged  a duration 
>f  individual  and  distinguishable  existence  as  circum- 
tances  will  admit. 

But  this  is  not  the  only,  nor  perhaps  the  strongest 
eason,  for  keeping  to  a certain  extent  in  view,  even 
Q an  alienation  of  endowments,  the  intention  of  the 
ounder.  Almost  any  fixed  rule,  consistent  with 
nsuring  the  employment  of  the  funds  for  some  pur- 
pose of  real  utility,  is  preferable  to  allowing  financiers 
o count  upon  them  as  a resource  applicable  to  all  the 
xigencies  of  the  State  indiscriminately.  Otherwise 
bey  may  be  seized  on  to  supply,  not  the  most  perma- 
ent  or  essential,  but  the  most  immediate  and  im- 
ortunate  demands : one  year  of  financial  difficulty 
light  suffice  to  dissipate  funds  that  centuries  would 
ot  replace  ; and  the  time  for  an  interference  with 
mndations  would  be  determined,  not  by  the  neces- 
ty  of  a reform,  but  by  the  state  of  the  quarter’s 
Avenue.  Nor  would  it  be  right  to  disregard  the  great 
nportance  of  the  associations  which  lead  mankind 
) respect  the  declared  will  of  every  person,  in  the 
isposal  of  what  is  justly  his  own.  That  will  is  surely 
ot  least  deserving  of  respect,  when  it  is  ordaining  an 
ct  of  beneficence.  And  any  deviation  from  it,  not 
filled  for  by  high  considerations  of  social  good,  even 
hen  not  a violation  of  property,  runs  counter  to  a 
teling  so  nearly  allied  to  those  on  which  the  respect 
>r  property  is  founded,  that  there  is  scarcely  a possi- 
lity  of  infringing  the  one  without  shaking  the  securitv 
: the  other.  J 

It  is  no  violation  of  these  salutary  associations  to 
isume  an  endowment,  if  it  be  done  with  the  con- 
ientious  reservation  which  we  have  suggested, 
espect  for  the  intentions  of  the  founder  is  not  shown 


30  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 

by  a literal  adherence  to  his  mere  words,  but  by  an 
honest  attempt  to  give  execution  to  his  real  wishes  ; 
not  sticking  superstitiously  to  the  means  which  he  hit 
upon  accidentally  or  because  he  knew  no  better  ; but 
regarding  solely  the  end  which  he  sought  to  compass 
by  those  means. 

The  first  duty  of  the  Legislature,  indeed,  is  to 
employ  the  endowment  usefully  : and  that  in  a degree 
corresponding  to  the  greatness  of  the  benefit  contem- 
plated by  the  donor.  But  it  is  also  of  importance,  ': 
that  not  only  as  great  a benefit,  but  as  far  as  possible 
the  same  kind  of  benefit,  should  be  reaped  by  society, 
as  that  which  the  founder  intended.  It  is  incumbent 
on  the  State  to  consider,  not  to  what  purpose  . it, 
under  the  temptations  of  the  moment,  would  like 
best  to  apply  the  money ; but  rather  what,  among , 
ail  objects  of  unquestionable  utility,  which  a reason- 
able person  in  these  days  would  value  sufficiently  to  .? 
give  this  sum  of  money  for,  is  the  particular  purpose; 
most  resembling  the  original  disposition  of  the  founder.  | 
Thus,  money  assigned  for  purposes  of  education,' 
should  be  devoted,  by  preference,  to  education the. 
kind,  and  the  mode,  being  altered,  as  the  principles, 
and  practice  of  education  come  to  be  better  under-, 
stood.  Money  left  for  giving  alms,  should  certainly, 
cease  to  be  expended  in  giving  alms;  but  it  should 
be  applied,  in  preference,  to  the  general  benefit  of  the 
poorer  classes,  in  whatever  manner  might  appear, 
most  eligible.  The  endowments  of  an  established 
church  should  continue  to  bear  that  character,  ast 
long  as  it  is  deemed  advisable  that  the  clergy  of  a sect 
or  sects  should  be  supported  by  a public  provision  of 
that  amount : and  under  any  circumstances,  as  mucfi 
of  these  endowments  as  is  required  should  be  sacredly 
preserved  for  the  purposes  of  spiritual  culture  ; using 
that  expression  in  its  primitive  meaning,  to  denote 
the  culture  of  the  inward  man— his  moral  and  intel- 
lectual well-being,  as  distinguished  from  the  mere 
supply  of  his  bodily  wants, 

Such,  indeed,  as  has  been  forcibly  maintained  by 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  31 


Mr.  Coleridge,  was  the  only  just  conception  of  a 
national  clergy,  from  their  first  establishment.  To 
the  minds  of  our  ancestors  they  presented  themselves, 
not  solely  as  ministers  for  going  through  the  cere- 
monial of  religion,  nor  even  solely  as  religious  teachers 
in  the  narrow  sense,  but  as  the  lettered  class  ; the 
clerici  or  clerks  ; who  were  appointed  generally  to 
prosecute  all  those  studies,  and  diffuse  all  those  im- 
pressions, which  constituted  mental  culture,  as  then 
understood  ; which  fitted  the  mind  of  man  for  his 
condition,  destiny,  and  duty,  as  a human  being.  In 
proportion  as  this  enlarged  conception  of  the  object 
of  a national  church  establishment  has  been  departed 
from,  so  far,  in  the  opinion  of  the  first  living  defender 
of  our  own  establishment,  it  has  been  perverted  both 
in  idea  and  in  fact  from  its  true  nature  and  ends.  A 
national  clerisy  or  clergy,  as  Mr.  Coleridge  conceives 
it,  would  be  a grand  institution  for  the  education  of 
the  whole  people  : not  their  school  education  merely, 
though  that  would  be  included  in  the  scheme  ; but  for 
training  and  rearing  them,  by  systematic  culture  con- 
tinued throughout  life,  to  the  highest  perfection  of 
their  mental  and  spiritual  nature. 

The  benefits  of  such  an  institution,  and  how  it 
ought  to  be  constituted  to  be  free  from  the  vices  of 
an  established  church  as  at  present  understood,  are 
questions  too  extensive  to  be  further  adverted  to  in 
this  place.  We  will  rather  say,  as  being  more  per- 
tinent to  our  present  design,  that  if  endowments  (like 
the  Church  property)  originally  set  apart  for  what 
|was  then  deemed  the  highest  spiritual  culture,  were 
diverted  to  the  purposes  of  the  highest  spiritual 
culture  which  the  intellects  of  a subsequent  age  could 
devise,  there  would  be  no  departure  from  the  inten- 
tions of  the  original  owners,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a 
faithful  fulfilment  of  them,  when  a literal  and  servile 
adherence  to  the  mere  accidents  of  the  appropriation 
would  be  the  surest  means  of  defeating  its  essentials. 
The  perfect  lawfulness  of  such  an  alienation  as  this,  is 
explicitly  laid  down  by  the  eminent  writer  to  whom 


32  CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY 


we  have  referred.  It  is  part  of  his  doctrine,  that  the 
State  is  at  liberty  to  withdraw  the  endowment  from 
its  existing  possessors,  whenever  any  body  of  persons 
can  be  found,  whether  ministers  of  religion  or  not,  by 
whom  the  ends  of  the  establishment,  as  he  under- 
stands them,  are  likely  to  be  more  perfectly  fulfilled. 
It  is  the  more  important  to  place  this  admission 
upon  record,  as  the  most  able  and  accomplished  of 
the  rising  defenders  of  the  Church  of  England  have 
evidently  issued  from  Mr.  Coleridge’s  school,  and 
have  taken  their  weapons  chiefly  from  his  storehouse. 

If,  however,  we  seize  upon  the  endowments  of  the 
Church,  not  for  the  civilization  and  cultivation  of  the 
minds  of  our  people,  but  to  pay  off  a small  fraction  of 
the  National  Debt,  or  to  supply  a temporary  financial 
exigency — we  shall  not  only  squander  for  the  benefit  of 
a single  generation,  the  inheritance  of  posterity ; we 
shall  not  only  purchase  an  imperceptible  good,  by 
sacrificing  a most  important  one  ; but  by  disregarding 
entirely  the  intentions  of  the  original  owners,  we  shall 
do  our  best  to  create  a habit  of  paltering  with  the 
sacredness  of  a trust.  It  matters  not  that  the  property 
has  now  become  res  nullius , and  is  therefore,  properly 
speaking,  our  own.  It  is  not  of  our  earning;  others 
gave  it  to  us,  and  for  purposes  which  it  may  be  a duty 
to  set  aside,  but  which  cannot  honestly  be  sacrificed  to 
a convenience.  We  have  not  the  slightest  reason  to 
believe  that  if  the  owners  were  alive,  and  still  masters 
of  their  property,  they  would  give  it  to  us  to  be  blown 
away  in  gunpowder,  or  to  save  a few  years’  house  and 
window  tax. 

On  a pressing  exigency,  as  to  avert  a national  bank- 
ruptcy, or  repel  a foreign  invasion,  the  whole  or  any 
part  of  the  endowment  might  be  borrowed  ; as,  in 
such  a case,  might  any  other  property,  public  or 
private  : but  subject  to  the  promptest  possible  repay- 
ment. 

If  any  surplus  remains,  after  as  much  has  been  done 
for  cultivating  the  minds  of  the  people,  as  it  is  thought 
advisable  to  do  without  making  them  pay  for  it,  the 


CORPORATION  AND  CHURCH  PROPERTY  83 


residue  may  be  unobjectionably  applied  to  the  ordinary 
purposes  of  government : though  it  should  even  then 
be  considered  as  a fund  liable  to  be  drawn  upon  to  its 
full  extent,  if  hereafter  required,  for  purposes  of  spiritual 
culture. 

A few  words  must  be  added  on  the  kinds  of  founda- 
tion which  ought  not  to  be  permitted  : after  which  we 
shall  conclude. 

No  endowment  should  be  suffered  to  be  made,  or 
funds  to  be  legally  appropriated,  for  any  purpose  which 
is  actually  unlawful.  If  the  law  has  forbidden  any  act, 
has  constituted  it  an  offence  or  injury,  every  mode  of 
committing  the  act,  not  some  particular  modes  only, 
ought  to  be  prohibited.  But  if  the  purpose  for  which 
the  foundation  is  constituted  be  not  illegal,  but  only,  in 
the  opinion  of  the  Legislature,  inexpedient,  this  is  by 
no  means  a sufficient  reason  for  denying  to  the  appro- 
priation the  protection  of  the  law.  The  grounds  of  this 
opinion  may  be  sufficiently  collected  from  the  preceding 
observations. 

The  only  other  restriction  which  we  would  impose 
upon  the  authors  of  Foundations,  is,  that  the  endow- 
ment shall  not  consist  of  land.  The  evils  of  allowing 
land  to  pass  into  mortmain,  are  universally  acknow- 
ledged ; and  the  trustees,  besides,  ought  to  have  no 
concern  with  the  money  entrusted  to  them,  except  to 
apply  it  to  its  purposes.  They  may  desire  landed 
property  as  a source  of  power,  which  is  a reason  the 
more  for  refusing  it  to  them  : but  as  a source  of 
income,  it  is  not  suited  to  their  position.  They 
should  only  have  to  receive  an  annuity,  and  that  in 
the  simplest  and  least  troublesome  manner  : not  to 
realize  a rental  from  a multitude  of  small  tenants. 
Their  time  and  attention  ought  not  to  be  divided 
between  their  proper  business  and  the  duties  of  a 
landlord,  or  the  superintendence  and  management  of 
a landed  estate. 


3 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE* 


All  friends  of  “ The  Movement  ” — all  persons,  be  they 
Ministers,  Members  of  Parliament,  or  public  writers, 
who  look  for  the  safety  and  well-being  of  England,  not 
through  the  extinction,  but  through  the  further  pro- 
gress of  political  reform — commit,  in  our  opinion,  an 
egregious  blunder,  if  they  devote  themselves  chiefly  to 
setting  forth  what  innovations  ought  not  to  be  made. 
Once  open  a door,  and  mischief  may  come  in  as  well  as 
go  out — who  doubts  it  ? But  our  fears  are  not  on  that 
side  : improvement,  and  not  conservation,  is  the  prize 
to  be  striven  for  just  now.  The  tide  of  improvement 
having  once  begun  to  rise,  we  know  that  froth,  and 
straws,  and  levities  of  all  kinds,  will  be  floated  in 
multitudes  up  the  stream  ; but  it  is  not  the  business  of 
Reformers  to  watch  for  their  appearance,  and  break 
each  successive  bubble  the  moment  it  shows  itself  on  the 
surface.  These  may  be  left  to  burst  of  themselves,  or 
to  be  swept  away  by  the  efforts  of  such  as  feel  them- 
selves called  upon  by  their  duty  to  make  that  their 
occupation.  Be  it  ours  to  find  fit  work  for  the  new 
instrument  of  government ; it  is  enough  that  our  silence 
testifies  against  the  unfit.  No  one  can  suffice  for  all 
things ; and  the  time  is  yet  far  distant  when  a Radical 
Reformer  can,  without  deserting  a higher  trust,  allow 
himself  to  assume,  in  the  main,  the  garb  and  attitude 
of  a Conservative. 

There  are,  however,  cases  in  which  this  wholesome 
rule  of  conduct  must  be  departed  from,  and  the  evil 
incurred  of  a conflict  between  reformers  and  reformers 
in  the  face  of  the  common  enemy.  Purposes  may  be 
proclaimed  by  part  of  the  multitudinous  body  of  pro- 
fessed Radicals,  which,  for  the  credit  of  the  common 

* T ait's  Magazine , January,  1833. 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE 


35 


cause,  it  may  be  imperative  upon  their  fellow-Radicals 
to  disavow ; purposes  such  as  cannot  even  continue  to 
be  publicly  broached  (not  being  as  publicly  protested 
against)  without  serious  mischief.  In  this  light  we 
look  upon  all  schemes  for  the  confiscation  of  private 
property,  in  any  shape,  or  under  any  pretext  ; and 
upon  none  more  than  the  gigantic  plan  of  confiscation 
which  at  present  finds  some  advocates — a depreciation 
of  the  currency. 

In  substance,  this  is  merely  a roundabout  (and  very 
inconvenient)  method  of  cutting  down  all  debts  to  a 
fraction.  Considering  it  in  that  light,  it  is  not  won- 
derful that  fraudulent  debtors  should  be  its  eager 
partisans  ; but  what  recommends  it  to  them  should 
have  been  enough  to  render  it  odious  to  all  well- 
meaning,  even  if  puzzle-headed,  persons.  That  men 
who  are  not  knaves  in  their  private  dealings  should 
understand  what  the  word  depreciation  means,  and 
yet  support  it,  speaks  but  ill  for  the  existing  state  of 
morality  on  such  subjects.  It  is  something  new  in  a 
civilized  country.  Several  times,  indeed,  since  paper 
credit  existed,  governments  or  public  bodies  have 
got  into  their  hands  the  power  of  issuing  a paper 
currency,  without  the  restraint  of  convertibility,  or 
any  limitation  of  the  amount.  The  most  memorable 
cases  are  those  of  Law’s  Mississippi  scheme,  the 
Assignats,  and  the  Bank  Restriction  in  1797.  On 
these  various  occasions  a depreciation  did  in  fact  take 
place  ; but  the  intention  was  not  professed  of  producing 
one,  nor  were  its  authors  in  the  slightest  degree  aware 
that  such  would  be  the  effect.  The  important  truth, 
that  currency  is  lowered  ( cceteris  paribus)  in  value,  by 
being  augmented  in  quantity,  was  known  solely  to 
speculative  philosophers,  to  Locke  and  Hume.  The 
Practicals  had  never  heard  of  it ; or  if  they  had,  dis- 
dained it  as  visionary  theory.  Not  an  idea  was 
pntertained  that  a paper-money  which  rested  on  good 
security — which  represented,  as  the  phrase  was,  real 
wealth — could  ever  become  depreciated  by  the  mere 
'•mount  of  the  issues. 


3—2 


36 


THE  CUEEENCY  JUGGLE 


But  now,  this  is  understood  and  reckoned  upon,  and 
is  the  very  foundation  of  the  scheme.  Everybody, 
with  a few  ridiculous  exceptions,  now  knows,  that 
increasing  the  issues  of  inconvertible  paper,  lowers  its 
value,  and  thereby  takes  from  all  who  have  currency 
in  their  possession,  or  who  are  entitled  to  receive  any 
fixed  sum,  an  indefinite  aliquot  part  of  their  property 
or  income  ; making  a present  of  the  amount  to  the 
issuers  of  the  currency,  and  to  the  persons  by  whom 
the  fixed  sums  are  payable.  This  is  seen  as  clearly  as 
daylight ; and  do  men  therefore  recoil  from  the  idea  ? 
No ; they  coolly  propose  that  the  thing  should  be 
done  ; the  novce  tabulae  issued ; the  transfer  to  the 
debtor  of  the  lawful  property  of  the  creditor,  and  to 
the  banker,  of  part  of  the  property  of  everyone  who 
has  money  in  his  purse,  deliberately  and  knowingly  ■ 
accomplished.  And  this  is  seriously  entertained  as  a 
proposition  sub  judice  ; quite  as  fit  to  be  discussed, 
and  as  likely,  a priori,  to  be  found  worthy  of  adoption,  ' 
as  any  other. 

At  the  head  of  the  depreciation  party  are  the  two  ■ 
Messrs.  Attwood,  Matthias  and  Thomas : the  first  a 
Tory,  and  nominee  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle : his 
brother,  the  Chairman  of  the  Birmingham  Union,  one 
who,  as  a man  of  action,  willing  and  able  to  stand  in 
the  breach,  the  organizer  and  leader  of  our  late  vie-  ] 
torious  struggle,  has  deserved  well  of  his  country,  j 
But  the  ability  required  for  leading  a congregated  * 
multitude  to  victory,  whether  in  the  war  of  politics  j 
or  in  that  of  battles,  is  one  thing  ; the  capacity  to  : 
make  laws  for  the  commerce  of  a great  nation,  or  even  : 
to  interpret  the  commonest  mercantile  phenomena,  is 
another.  If  any  one  still  doubts  this  truth,  he  may  | 
learn  it  from  Mr.  Thomas  Attwood’s  evidence  before 
the  Bank  Committee. 

Mr.  Attwood  has  there  given  vent  to  speculations  on 
currency,  which  prove  that  on  a topic  to  which  he  has 
paid  more  attention  than  to  any  other,  he  is  yet  far 
beneath  even  his  recent  antagonist,  Mr.  Cobbett. 
Mr.  Cobbett,  in  truth,  sees  as  clearly  as  any  one,  that 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE 


37 


to  enact  that  sixpence  should  hereafter  be  called  a 
shilling,  would  be  of  no  use  except  to  the  person  who 
owed  a shilling  before,  and  is  now  allowed  to  pay  it 
with  sixpence.  And,  it  being  no  part  of  Mr.  Cobbett’s 
object  to  produce  any  gratuitous  evil,  he  has  common- 
sense  enough  to  see  that  it  would  be  absurd,  for  the 
sake  of  operating  upon  existing  contracts,  to  render  all 
future  ones  impracticable  except  on  the  footing  of 
gambling  transactions,  by  making  it  impossible  for 
any  one  to  divine  whether  the  shilling  he  undertakes 
to  pay  will  be  worth  a penny  or  a pound  at  the  time 
of  payment.  Mr.  Cobbett,  therefore,  is  for  calling  a 
spade  a spade,  and  cancelling,  avowedly,  a part,  or  the 
whole,  as  it  may  happen,  of  all  existing  debts  ; per- 
mitting the  pound  sterling  to  be  worth  twenty  shillings, 
as  before.  Future  creditors  would  thus  have  the 
benefit  of  knowing  what  they  bargained  for,  though 
they  might,  indeed,  feel  a slight  doubt  whether  it 
would  be  paid.  In  this  scheme  there  is  only  knavery 
— no  folly  ; save  that  of  expecting  that  a great  act  of 
national  knavery  should  be  a national  benefit.  Mr. 
Attwood,  on  the  other  hand,  is  for  the  robbery  too  ; 
but  then  it  has  not  so  much  the  character  of  a robbery 
in  his  eyes ; for  if  it  be  done  in  the  way  of  a depreci- 
ated paper  currency,  such  a flood  of  wealth,  he 
imagines,  will  be  disengaged  in  the  process,  that  the 
robber  and  the  robbed,  the  lion  and  the  lamb,  will 
lie  down  lovingly  together  and  wallow  in  riches.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  fundholder’s  pocket,  Mr.  Attwood  expects 
to  find  the  philosopher’s  stone.  As  great  a man  as  Mr. 
Attwood,  the  King  of  Brobdingnag,  declared  it  to  be 
his  creed,  that  the  man  who  calls  into  existence  two 
blades  of  grass  where  only  one  grew  before,  deserves 
better  of  his  country  than  the  whole  tribe  of  states- 
men and  warriors.  Mr.  Attwood  has  the  same  exalted 
opinion  of  the  man  who  calls  two  pieces  of  paper  into 
existence  where  only  one  piece  existed  before. 

But  first,  we  must  say  a few  words  respecting  the 
robbery  itself : we  will  revert  afterwards  to  the  accom- 
panying juggle. 


38 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE 


There  has  been,  and  is,  one  sophism,  which  has 
enabled  many  well-intentioned  persons  to  disguise 
from  their  own  consciences  the  real  character  of  the 
contemplated  fraud  upon  creditors.  This  sophism  has 
some  superficial  plausibility.  More  than  half  (it  is 
argued)  of  the  National  Debt,  as  well  as  a great  multi- 
tude of  private  engagements,  were  contracted  in  a 
depreciated  currency  ; if,  therefore,  the  interest  or 
principal  be  paid  without  abatement,  in  money  of  the 
ancient  standard,  we  are  paying  to  public  and  private 
creditors  more  than  they  lent. 

To  this  fallacy  there  are  as  many  as  three  or  four 
sufficient  refutations,  every  one  standing  on  its  own 
independent  ground.  But  the  most  conclusive  and 
crushing  of  them  all  is  not  unfrequently  overlooked, 
such  is  the  shortness  of  men’s  memories,  even  about 
the  events  of  their  own  time.  Many  who  abhor  the 
“ equitable  adjustment,”  join  in  condemning  the 
restoration  of  the  currency  in  1819;  concede  that  Peel’s 
Bill  plundered  all  debtors  for  the  benefit  of  creditors  ; 
but  urge,  that  the  present  fundholders  and  other 
creditors  are,  in  great  part,  not  the  same  persons  who 
reaped  the  undue  benefit  ; and  that  to  claim  damages 
from  one  set  of  persons,  because  another  set  have  been 
overpaid,  is  no  reparation,  but  a repetition  of  injustice. 
This  is,  indeed,  true  and  irresistible,  even  though  it 
stood  alone  : there  needs  no  other  argument ; yet  there 
is  another,  and  a still  more  powerful  one. 

The  ‘ restoration  of  the  ancient  standard,  and  the 
payment,  in  the  restored  currency,  of  the  interest  of 
a debt  contracted  in  a depreciated  one,  was  no  injustice, 
but  the  simple  performance  of  a plighted  compact. 
All  debts  contracted  during  the  Bank  Restriction  were 
contracted  under  as  full  an  assurance  as  the  faith  of  a 
nation  could  give,  that  cash  payments  were  only  tem- 
porarily suspended.  At  first,  the  suspension  was  to 
last  a few  weeks ; next,  a few  months ; then,  at 
farthest,  a few  years.  Nobody  even  insinuated  a 
suggestion  that  it  should  be  perpetual,  or  that,  when 
cash  payments  were  resumed,  less  than  a guinea  should 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE 


39 


be  given  at  the  Bank  for  a pound  note  and  a shilling. 
And  to  quiet  the  doubts  and  fears  which  would  else 
have  arisen,  and  which  would  have  rendered  it  impos- 
sible for  any  Minister  to  raise  another  loan  except  at 
the  most  ruinous  interest,  it  was  made  the  law  of  the 
land,  solemnly  sanctioned  by  Parliament,  that,  six 
months  after  the  peace,  if  not  before,  cash  payments 
should  be  resumed.  This,  therefore,  was  distinctly 
one  of  the  conditions  of  all  the  loans  made  during  that 
period.  It  is  a condition  which  has  not  been  fulfilled. 
Instead  of  six  months,  more  than  as  many  years  inter- 
vened between  the  peace  and  the  resumption  of  cash 
payments.  The  nation,  therefore,  has  not  kept  faith 
with  the  fundholder.  Instead  of  having  overpaid  him, 
we  have  cheated  him.  Instead  of  making  him  a present 
(as  is  alleged)  of  a percentage  equal  to  the  enhancement 
of  a currency,  we  continued,  on  the  contrary,  to  pay 
his  interest  in  depreciated  paper  several  years  after  we 
were  bound  by  contract  to  pay  it  in  cash.  And  be  it 
remarked,  that  the  depreciation  was  at  its  highest 
during  a part  of  that  very  period.  If,  therefore,  there  is 
to  be  a great  day  of  national  atonement  for  gone-by 
wrongs,  the  fundholders,  instead  of  having  anything 
to  pay  back,  should  be  directed  to  send  in  their  bill  for 
the  principal  and  interest  of  what  they  were  defrauded 
of  during  the  first  years  of  the  peace.  Instead  of  this, 
it  is  proposed  that,  having  already  defrauded  them  of 
part  of  a benefit  which  was  in  their  bond,  and  for 
which  they  gave  an  equivalent,  we  should  now  force 
them  to  make  restitution  of  the  remainder. 

That  they  gave  an  equivalent  is  manifest.  The 
depreciation  did  not  attain  its  maximum  until  the  last 
few  years  of  the  war ; indeed,  it  never  amounted  to 
anything  considerable  till  then.  It  was  during  those 
years,  also,  that  the  largest  sums  were  borrowed  by 
the  Government.  At  that  time  the  effects  of  the  Bank 
Restriction  had  begun  to  be  well  understood.  The 
v/ritings  of  Mr.  Henry  Thornton,  Lord  King,  Mr. 
Ricardo,  Mr.  Huskisson,  Mr.  Blake,  &c.,  and  the 
Report  of  the  Bullion  Committee,  had  diffused  a very 


40 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE 


general  conviction  that  the  currency  was  in  fact 
depreciated,  and  that  the  Bank  Directors  acted  on 
principles  of  which  that  evil  was  the  natural  conse- 
quence. Does  anybody  imagine  that  the  loans  of 
those  years  could  have  been  raised,  except  on  terms 
never  before  heard  of  under  a civilized  government,  if 
there  had  been  no  engagement  to  pay  the  interest  or 
the  principal  in  money  of  any  fixed  standard  ; but  it 
had  been  avowed,  that  to  whatever  point  the  arbitrary 
issues  of  the  Bank  might  depress  the  value  of  the  pound 
sterling,  there  it  would  be  suffered  to  remain  ? 

What  avails  it,  then,  to  cavil  about  paying  more 
than  was  borrowed  ? Everybody  who  borrows  at 
interest,  and  keeps  his  engagement,  pays  more  than 
he  borrowed.  The  question  is  not,  have  we  paid  more 
than  we  borrowed  ? but,  have  we  paid  more  than  we 
contracted  to  pay  ? And  the  answer  is,  we  have  paid 
less.  The  fundholder,  as  the  weaker  party,  has 
pocketed  the  injury ; he  only  asks  to  be  spared  an 
additional  and  far  greater  one.  We  covenanted  to  pay 
in  a metallic  standard ; we  therefore  are  bound  to  do 
it.  To  deliberate  on  such  a question  is  as  if  a private 
person  were  to  deliberate  whether  he  should  pick  a 
pocket. 

So  much  for  the  substance  of  the  fraud.  There  is, 
however,  no  political  crime  so  bad  in  itself  but  what 
may  be  made  still  worse  by  the  manner  of  doing  it. 
To  rob  all  creditors,  public  and  private,  is  bad  enough 
in  all  conscience  ; but,  for  the  sake  of  robbing  existing 
creditors,  to  give  to  a set  of  bankers  the  power  of 
taxing  the  community  to  an  unlimited  amount  at  their 
sole  pleasure,  by  pouring  forth  paper,  which  could  only 
get  into  circulation  by  lowering  the  value  of  all  the 
paper  already  issued ; what  would  this  be  but  to  erect 
a company  of  public  plunderers,  and  place  all  our 
fortunes  in  their  hands,  merely  because  they  offer  to 
lend  us  our  own  money,  and  call  the  twofold  operation 
“ affording  facilities  to  trade  ”?  It  were  better  worth 
our  while  to  settle  a Blenheim  or  a Strathfieldsaye 
upon  every  banker  in  England.  Pecuniary  transac- 


THE  CUEEENCY  JUGGLE 


41 


tions  would  shortly  come  to  an  end  ; in  a few  months  we 
should  be  in  a state  of  barter.  No  one  in  his  senses 
would  take  money  in  exchange  for  anything,  except  he 
were  sure  of  being  able  to  lay  it  out  before  the  next 
day.  Every  one  would  begin  to  estimate  his  posses- 
sions, not  by  pounds  sterling,  but  by  sheep  and  oxen, 
as  in  the  patriarchal  times. 

Mr.  Attwood  opines,  that  the  multiplication  of  the 
circulating  medium,  and  the  consequent  diminution  of 
its  value,  do  not  merely  diminish  the  pressure  of  taxes 
and  debts,  and  other  fixed  charges,  but  give  employ- 
ment to  labour,  and  that  to  an  indefinite  extent.  If 
we  could  work  miracles,  we  would  not  be  niggardly 
of  them.  Possessing  the  power  of  calling  all  the 
labourers  of  Great  Britain  into  high  wages  and  full 
employment,  by  no  more  complicated  a piece  of 
machinery  than  an  engraver’s  plate,  a man  would  be 
much  to  blame  if  he  failed  for  want  of  going  far 
enough.  Mr.  Attwood,  accordingly,  is  for  increasing 
the  issues,  until,  with  his  paper  loaves  and  fishes,  he 
has  fed  the  whole  multitude,  so  that  not  a creature 
goes  away  hungry.  Such  a depreciation  as  would 
cause  wheat  to  average  ten  shillings  the  bushel,  he 
thinks,  would  suffice  ; but  if,  on  trial,  any  labourer 
should  declare  that  he  still  had  an  appetite,  Mr. 
Attwood  proffers  to  serve  up  another  dish,  and  then 
another,  up  to  the  desired  point  of  satiety.  If  a 
population  thus  satisfactorily  fed  should,  under  such 
ample  encouragement,  double  or  treble  in  its  num- 
bers, all  that  would  be  necessary,  in  this  gentleman’s 
opinion,  is  to  depreciate  the  currency  so  much  the 
more. 

It  is  not  that  Mr.  Attwood  exactly  thinks  that  a 
hungry  people  can  be  literally  fed  upon  his  bits  of 
paper.  His  doctrine  is,  that  paper  money  is  not 
capital,  but  brings  capital  into  fuller  employment. 
A large  portion  of  the  national  capital,  especially  of 
that  part  which  consists  of  buildings  and  machinery, 
is  now,  he  affirms,  lying  idle,  in  default  of  a market 
for  its  productions ; those  various  productions  being. 


42  THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE 

as  he  admits,  the  natural  market  for  one  another,  but 
being  unable  to  exchange  for  each  other,  for  want 
of  a more  plentiful  medium  of  exchange,  just  as 
wheels  will  not  turn  with  a spare  allowance  of  oil. 
It  was  suggested  to  him,  by  some  member  of  the 
Committee,  that  a small  nominal  amount  of  currency 
will  suffice  to  exchange  as  many  commodities  as  a 
larger  one,  saving  that  it  will  do  it  at  lower  prices  ; 
which,  however,  when  common  to  all  commodities, 
are  exactly  as  good  to  the  sellers  as  high  prices,  except 
that  these  last  may  enable  them  to  put  off  their  credi- 
tors with  a smaller  real  value.  Mr.  Attwood  could  not 
help  admitting  this ; but  it  failed  to  produce  any  im- 
pression upon  him ; he  could  not  perceive  that  high 
prices  are  in  themselves  no  benefit : he  could  not  get 
it  out  of  his  head  that  high  prices  occasion  “ increased 
consumption,”  “ increased  demand,”  and  thereby  give 
a stimulus  to  production.  As  if  it  were  any  increase 
of  demand  for  bread  to  have  two  bits  of  paper  to  give 
for  a loaf  instead  of  one.  As  if  being  able  to  sell  a 
pair  of  shoes  for  two  rags  instead  of  one,  when  each 
rag  is  only  worth  half  as  much,  were  any  additional 
inducement  to  the  production  of  shoes. 

Whenever  we  meet  with  any  notion  more  than 
commonly  absurd,  we  expect  to  find  that  it  is  derived 
from  what  is  miscalled  ‘‘practical  experience”; 
namely,  from  something  which  has  been  seen,  heard, 
and  misunderstood.  Such  is  the  case  with  Mr. 
Attwood’s  delusion.  What  has  imposed  upon  him  is, 
as  usual,  what  he  would  term  “a  fact.”  If  prices 
could  be  kept  as  high  as  in  1825,  all  would  be  well ; 
for,  in  1825,  not  one  well-conducted  labourer  in  Great 
Britain  was  unemployed.  The  first  liberty  we  shall 
take,  is  that  of  disbelieving  the  “fact.”  In  its  very 
nature,  it  is  one  which  neither  Mr.  Attwood,  nor  any 
one,  can  personally  know  to  be  true  ; and  his  means  of 
accurate  knowledge  are  probably  confined  to  the  great 
manufacturing  and  exporting  town  which  he  personally 
inhabits.  Thus  much,  however,  we  grant,  that  the 
buildings  and  machinery  he  speaks  of  were  not  lying 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE  43 

idle  in  1825,  but  were  in  full  operation : many  of 
them,  indeed,  were  erected  during  that  frantic  period  ; 
which  is  partly  the  cause  of  their  lying  idle  now. 
But  why  was  all  the  capital  of  the  country  in  such 
unwonted  activity  in  1825  ? Because  the  whole  mer- 
cantile public  was  in  a state  of  insane  delusion,  in  its 
very  nature  temporary.  From  the  impossibility  of 
exactly  adjusting  the  operations  of  the  producer  to 
the  wants  of  the  consumer,  it  always  happens  that 
some  articles  are  more  or  less  in  deficiency,  and  others 
in  excess.  To  rectify  these  derangements,  the  healthy 
working  of  the  social  economy  requires  that  in  some 
channels  capital  should  be  in  full,  while  in  others  it 
should  be  in  slack,  employment.  But  in  1825,  it  was 
imagined  that  all  articles,  compared  with  the  demand 
for  them,  were  in  a state  of  deficiency.  An  unusual 
extension  of  the  spirit  of  speculation,  accompanied 
rather  than  caused  by  a great  increase  of  paper  credit, 
had  produced  a rise  of  prices,  which  not  being  supposed 
to  be  connected  with  a depreciation  of  the  currency, 
each  merchant  or  manufacturer  considered  to  arise 
from  an  increase  of  the  effectual  demand  for  his 
particular  article,  and  fancied  there  was  a ready  and 
permanent  market  for  almost  any  quantity  of  that 
article  which  he  could  produce.  Mr.  Attwood’s  error 
is  that  of  supposing  that  a depreciation  of  the  currency 
really  increases  the  demand  for  all  articles,  and 
consequently  their  production,  because,  under  some 
circumstances,  it  may  create  a false  opinion  of  an 
increase  of  demand,  which  false  opinion  leads,  as 
the  reality  would  do,  to  an  increase  of  production, 
followed,  however,  by  a fatal  revulsion  as  soon  as  the 
delusion  ceases.  The  revulsion  in  1825  was  not 
caused,  as  Mr.  Attwood  fancies,  by  a contraction  of 
the  currency ; the  only  cause  of  the  real  ruin,  was 
the  imaginary  prosperity.  The  contraction  of  the 
currency  was  the  consequence,  not  the  cause,  of  the 
revulsion.  So  many  merchants  and  bankers  having 
failed  in  their  speculations,  so  many,  therefore,  being 
unable  to  meet  their  engagements,  their  paper  became 


44 


THE  CURRENCY  JUGGLE 


worthless,  and  discredited  all  other  paper.  An  issue 
of  inconvertible  bank  notes  might  have  enabled  these 
debtors  to  cheat  their  creditors ; but  it  would  not 
have  opened  a market  for  one  more  loaf  of  bread, 
or  one  more  yard  of  cloth  ; because  what  makes  a 
demand  for  commodities  is  commodities,  and  not  bits 
of  paper. 

It  is  no  slight  additional  motive  to  rejoice  in  our 
narrow  escape  from  marching  to  Parliamentary 
Reform  through  a violent  revolution,  when  we  think 
of  the  influence  which  would  in  that  event  have  been 
exercised  over  Great  Britain,  for  good  or  for  ill,  by 
men  of  whose  opinions  what  precedes  is  a faithful 
picture. 

We  have  no  dread  of  them  at  present,  because, 
together  with  the  disapprobation  of  all  instructed  per- 
sons, they  have  to  encounter  a strong  popular  prejudice 
against  paper  money  of  every  kind.  The  real  misfor- 
tune would  be,  if  they  should  wave  their  currency 
juggle,  and  coalesce  with  the  clearer- sighted  and  more 
numerous  tribe  of  political  swindlers,  who  attack  public 
and  private  debts  directly  and  avowedly. 

But  even  thus,  we  do  not  fear  that  they  should 
succeed.  There  are  enough  of  honest  people  in 
England  to  be  too  many  for  all  the  knaves  ; and  it  is 
only  for  want  of  discussion  that  these  schemes  find 
any  favourers  among  sincere  men.  The  mischief,  and 
it  is  not  inconsiderable,  is,  that  such  things  should  be 
talked  of,  or  thought  of;  that  the  time  and  talents 
which  ought  to  be  employed  in  making  good  laws  and 
redressing  real  wrongs,  should  be  taken  up  in  counsel- 
ling or  in  averting  a national  iniquity  : to  the  injury 
of  all  good  hopes,  but  most  to  the  damage  and  discredit 
of  the  popular  cause,  which  is  almost  undistinguishably 
identified  in  the  minds  of  many  excellent,  but  ill- 
informed  and  timid  people,  with  the  supremacy  of 
brute  force  over  right,  and  a perpetually  impending 
spoliation  of  everything  which  one  person  has  and 
another  desires. 


A FEW  OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  FRENCH 
REVOLUTION  * 


History  is  interesting  under  a twofold  aspect ; it  has 
a scientific  interest,  and  a moral  or  biographic  interest. 
A scientific,  inasmuch  as  it  exhibits  the  general  laws 
of  the  moral  universe  acting  in  circumstances  of  com- 
plexity, and  enables  us  to  trace  the  connection  between 
great  effects  and  their  causes.  A moral  or  biographic 
interest,  inasmuch  as  it  displays  the  characters  and 
lives  of  human  beings,  and  calls  upon  us,  according  to 
their  deservings  or  to  their  fortunes,  for  sympathy, 
admiration,  or  censure. 

Without  entering  at  present,  more  than  to  the  extent 
of  a few  words,  into  the  scientific  aspect  of  the  history 
of  the  French  Revolution,  or  stopping  to  define  the 
place  which  we  would  assign  to  it  as  an  event  in 
universal  history,  we  need  not  fear  to  declare  utterly 
unqualified  for  estimating  the  French  Revolution,  any 
one  who  looks  upon  it  as  arising  from  causes  peculiarly 
French,  or  otherwise  than  as  one  turbulent  passage 
in  a progressive  transformation  embracing  the  whole 
human  race.  All  political  revolutions,  not  effected  by 
foreign  conquest,  originate  in  moral  revolutions.  The 
subversion  of  established  institutions  is  merely  one 
consequence  of  the  previous  subversion  of  established 
opinions.  The  political  revolutions  of  the  last  three 
centuries  were  but  a few  outward  manifestations  of  a 
moral  revolution,  which  dates  from  the  great  breaking 
loose  of  the  human  faculties  commonly  described  as 
the  a revival  of  letters,”  and  of  which  the  main  instru- 
ment and  agent  was  the  invention  of  printing.  How 
much  of  the  course  of  that  moral  revolution  yet 

* From  a review  of  the  first  two  volumes  of  Alison’s 
History  of  Europe , Monthly  Repository , August,  1833. 

45 


46 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 


remains  to  be  run,  or  how  many  political  revolutions 
it  will  yet  generate  before  it  be  exhausted,  no  one  can 
foretell.  But  it  must  be  the  shallowest  view  of  the 
French  Revolution,  which  can  now  consider  it  as  any- 
thing but  a mere  incident  in  a great  change  in  man 
himself — in  his  beliefs,  in  his  principles  of  conduct, 
and  therefore  in  the  outward  arrangements  of  society  ; 
a change  so  far  from  being  completed,  that  it  is  not 
yet  clear,  even  to  the  more  advanced  spirits,  to  what 
ultimate  goal  it  is  tending. 

Now  if  this  view  be  just  (which  we  must  be  content 
for  the  present  to  assume),  surely  for  an  English 
historian,  writing  at  this  particular  time  concerning 
the  French  Revolution,  there  was  something  pressing 
for  consideration,  of  greater  interest  and  importance 
than  the  degree  of  praise  or  blame  due  to  the  few  in- 
dividuals who,  with  more  or  less  consciousness  of  what 
they  were  about,  happened  to  be  personally  implicated 
in  that  strife  of  the  elements. 

But  also,  if,  feeling  his  incapacity  for  treating  his- 
tory from  the  scientific  point  of  view,  an  author  thinks 
fit  to  confine  himself  to  the  moral  aspect ; surely  some 
less  commonplace  moral  result,  some  more  valuable 
and  more  striking  practical  lesson  might  admit  of 
being  drawn  from  this  extraordinary  passage  of  history, 
than  merely  this,  that  men  should  beware  how  they 
begin  a political  convulsion,  because  the}7  never  can 
tell  how  or  when  it  will  end;  which  happens  to  be  the 
one  solitary  general  inference,  the  entire  aggregate  of 
the  practical  wisdom,  deduced  therefrom  in  Mr.  Alison’s 
book. 

Of  such  stuff  are  ordinary  people’s  moralities  com- 
posed. Be  good,  be  wise,  always  do  right,  take  heed 
what  you  do,  for  you  know  not  what  may  come  of  it. 
Does  Mr.  Alison,  or  any  one,  really  believe  that  any 
human  thing,  from  the  fall  of  man  to  the  last  bank- 
ruptcy, ever  went  wrong  for  want  of  such  maxims  as 
these  ? 

A political  convulsion  is  a fearful  thing  : granted. 
Nobody  can  be  assured  beforehand  what  course  it  will 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 


47 


take  : we  grant  that  too.  What  then  ? No  one  ought 
ever  to  do  anything  which  has  any  tendency  to  bring 
on  a convulsion : is  that  the  principle  ? But  there 
never  was  an  attempt  made  to-  reform  any  abuse  in 
Church  or  State,  never  any  denunciation  uttered  or 
mention  made  of  any  political  or  social  evil,  which 
had  not  some  such  tendency.  Whatever  excites  dis- 
satisfaction with  any  one  of  the  arrangements  of 
society,  brings  the  danger  of  a forcible  subversion  of 
the  entire  fabric  so  much  the  nearer.  Does  it  follow 
that  there  ought  to  be  no  censure  of  anything  which 
exists  ? Or  is  this  abstinence,  peradventure,  to  be 
observed  only  when  the  danger  is  considerable  ? But 
that  is  whenever  the  evil  complained  of  is  consider- 
able ; because  the  greater  the  evil,  the  stronger  is  the 
desire  excited  to  be  freed  from  it,  and  because  the 
greatest  evils  are  always  those  which  it  is  most  difficult 
to  get  rid  of  by  ordinary  means.  It  would  follow, 
then,  that  mankind  are  at  liberty  to  throw  off  small 
evils,  but  not  great  ones  ; that  the  most  deeply- seated 
and  fatal  diseases  of  the  social  system  are  those  which 
ought  to  be  left  for  ever  without  remedy. 

Men  are  not  to  make  it  the  sole  object  of  their 
political  lives  to  avoid  a revolution,  no  more  than  of 
their  natural  lives  to  avoid  death.  They  are  to  take 
reasonable  care  to  avert  both  those  contingencies  when 
there  is  a present  danger,  but  not  to  forbear  the  pur- 
suit of  any  worthy  object  for  fear  of  a mere  possi- 
bility. 

Unquestionably  it  is  possible  to  do  mischief  by 
striving  for  a larger  measure  of  political  reform  than 
the  national  mind  is  ripe  for ; and  so  forcing  on  pre- 
maturely a struggle  between  elements,  which,  by  a 
more  gradual  progress,  might  have  been  brought  to 
harmonize.  And  every  honest  and  considerate  person, 
before  he  engages  in  the  career  of  a political  reformer, 
will  inquire  whether  the  moral  state  and  intellectual 
culture  of  the  people  are  such  as  to  render  any  great 
improvement  in  the  management  of  public  affairs 
possible.  But  he  will  inquire  too,  whether  the  people 


48 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 


are  likely  ever  to  be  made  better,  morally  or  intellec- 
tually, without  a previous  change  in  the  government. 
If  not,  it  may  still  be  his  duty  to  strive  for  such  a 
change  at  whatever  risk. 

What  decision  a perfectly  wise  man,  at  the  opening 
of  the  French  Revolution,  would  have  come  to  upon 
these  several  points,  he  who  knows  most  will  be  most 
slow  to  pronounce.  By  the  Revolution,  substantial 
good  has  been  effected  of  immense  value,  at  the  cost 
of  immediate  evil  of  the  most  tremendous  kind.  But 
it  is  impossible,  with  all  the  light  which  has  been,  or 
probably  ever  will  be,  obtained  on  the  subject,  to  do 
more  than  conjecture  whether  France  could  have 
purchased  improvement  cheaper  ; whether  any  course 
which  could  have  averted  the  Revolution,  would  not 
have  done  so  by  arresting  all  improvement,  and  bar- 
barizing down  the  people  of  France  into  the  condition 
of  Russian  boors. 

A revolution,  which  is  so  ugly  a thing,  certainly 
cannot  be  a very  formidable  thing,  if  all  is  true  that 
Conservative  writers  say  of  it.  For,  according  to  them, 
it  has  always  depended  upon  the  will  of  some  small 
number  of  persons,  whether  there  should  be  a revolu- 
tion or  not.  They  invariably  begin  by  assuming  that 
great  and  decisive  immediate  improvements,  with  a 
certainty  of  subsequent  and  rapid  progress,  and  the 
ultimate  attainment  of  all  practicable  good,  may  be 
had  by  peaceable  means  at  the  option  of  the  leading 
reformers,  and  that  to  this  they  voluntarily  prefer 
civil  war  and  massacre  for  the  sake  of  marching 
somewhat  more  directly  and  rapidly  towards  their 
ultimate  ends.  Having  thus  made  out  a revolution 
to  be  so  mere  a bagatelle , that,  except  by  the  extreme 
of  knavery  or  folly,  it  may  always  be  kept  at  a dis- 
tance ; there  is  little  difficulty  in  proving  all  revolu- 
tionary leaders  knaves  or  fools.  But  unhappily  theirs 
is  no  such  enviable  position ; a far  other  alternative 
is  commonly  offered  to  them.  We  will  hazard  the 
assertion,  that  there  has  scarcely  ever  yet  happened  a 
political  convulsion,  originating  in  the  desire  of  reform, 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 


49 


where  the  choice  did  not,  in  the  full  persuasion  of 
every  person  concerned,  lie  between  all  and  nothing  ; 
where  the  actors  in  the  revolution  had  not  thoroughly 
made  up  their  minds,  that,  without  a revolution,  the 
enemies  of  all  reform  would  have  the  entire  ascendancy, 
and  that  not  only  would  there  be  no  present  improve- 
ment, but  the  door  would  for  the  future  be  shut  against 
every  endeavour  towards  it. 

Unquestionably,  such  was  the  conviction  of  those 
who  took  part  in  the  French  Revolution,  during  its 
earlier  stages.  They  did  not  choose  the  way  of  blood 
and  violence  in  preference  to  the  way  of  peace  and 
discussion.  Theirs  was  the  cause  of  law  and  order* 
The  States  General  at  Versailles  were  a body,  legally 
assembled,  legally  and  constitutionally  sovereign  of  the 
country,  and  had  every  right  which  law  and  opinion 
could  bestow  upon  them,  to  do  all  that  they  did.  But 
as  soon  as  they  did  anything  disagreeable  to  the  king’s 
courtiers  (at  that  time  they  had  not  even  begun  to 
make  any  alterations  in  the  fundamental  institutions  of 
the  country),  the  king  and  his  advisers  took  steps  for 
appealing  to  the  bayonet.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  the 
adverse  force  of  an  armed  people  stood  forth  in  defence 
of  the  highest  constituted  authority — the  Legislature 
of  their  country — menaced  with  illegal  violence.  The 
Bastille  fell ; the  popular  party  became  the  stronger ; 
and  success,  which  so  often  is  said  to  be  a justification, 
has  here  proved  the  reverse  : men  who  would  have 
been  ranked  with  Hampden  and  Sidney  if  they  had 
quietly  waited  to  have  their  throats  cut,  passed  for 
odious  monsters  because  they  have  been  victorious. 

We  have  not  now  time  nor  space  to  discuss  the 
quantum  of  the  guilt  which  attaches,  not  to  the 
authors  of  the  Revolution,  but  to  the  various  subse- 
quent revolutionary  governments,  for  the  crimes  of  the 
Revolution.  Much  was  done  which  could  not  have 
been  done  except  by  bad  men.  But  whoever  examines 
faithfully  and  diligently  the  records  of  those  times — 
whoever  can  conceive  the  circumstances  and  look  into 
the  minds  even  of  the  men  who  planned  and  perpetrated 

4 


50 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 


those  enormities,  will  be  the  more  fully  convinced,  the 
more  he  considers  the  facts,  that  all  which  was  done 
had  one  sole  object.  That  object  was,  according  to  the 
phraseology  of  the  time,  to  save  the  Revolution ; to 
save  it,  no  matter  by  what  means  ; to  defend  it  against 
its  irreconcilable  enemies,  within  and  without ; to 
prevent  the  undoing  of  the  whole  work,  the  restoration 
of  all  which  had  been  demolished,  and  the  extermination 
of  all  who  had  been  active  in  demolishing ; to  keep 
down  the  royalists,  and  drive  back  the  foreign  in- 
vaders ; as  the  means  to  these  ends,  to  erect  all  France 
into  a camp,  subject  the  whole  French  people  to  the 
obligations  and  the  arbitrary  discipline  of  a besieged 
city ; and  to  inflict  death,  or  suffer  it,  with  equal  readi- 
ness— death  or  any  other  evil — for  the  sake  of  succeed- 
ing in  the  object. 

But  nothing  of  all  this  is  dreamed  of  in  Mr.  Alison’s 
philosophy  : he  knows  not  enough,  either  of  his  pro- 
fessed subject,  or  of  the  universal  subject,  the  nature  of 
man,  to  have  got  even  thus  far,  to  have  made  this  first 
step  towards  understanding  what  the  French  Revolu- 
tion was.  In  this  he  is  without  excuse,  for  had  he 
been  even  moderately  read  in  the  French  literature 
subsequent  to  the  Revolution,  he  would  have  found 
this  view  of  the  details  of  its  history  familiar  to  every 
writer  and  to  every  reader. 


THOUGHTS  ON  POETRY  AND  ITS 
VARIETIES* 


I. 

It  has  often  been  asked,  What  is  Poetry  ? And  many 
and  various  are  the  answers  which  have  been  returned. 
The  vulgarest  of  all — one  with  which  no  person  pos- 
sessed of  the  faculties  to  which  Poetry  addresses  itself 
can  ever  have  been  satisfied — is  that  which  confounds 
poetry  with  metrical  composition  : yet  to  this  wretched 
mockery  of  a definition,  many  have  been  led  back,  by 
the  failure  of  all  their  attempts  to  find  any  other  that 
would  distinguish  what  they  have  been  accustomed  to 
call  poetry,  from  much  which  they  have  known  only 
under  other  names. 

That,  however,  the  word  “ poetry  n imports  some- 
thing quite  peculiar  in  its  nature,  something  which 
may  exist  in  what  is  called  prose  as  well  as  in  verse, 
something  which  does  not  even  require  the  instrument 
of  words,  but  can  speak  through  the  other  audible 
symbols  called  musical  sounds,  and  even  through  the 
visible  ones  which  are  the  language  of  sculpture,  paint- 
ing, and  architecture  ; all  this,  we  believe,  is  and  must 
be  felt,  though  perhaps  indistinctly,  by  all  upon  whom 
poetry  in  any  of  its  shapes  produces  any  impression 
beyond  that  of  tickling  the  ear.  The  distinction  be- 
tween poetry  and  what  is  not  poetry,  whether  explained 
or  not,  is  felt  to  be  fundamental : and  where  everyone 
feels  a difference,  a difference  there  must  be.  All 
other  appearances  may  be  fallacious,  but  the  appear- 
ance of  a difference  is  a real  difference.  Appearances, 
too,  like  other  things,  must  have  a cause,  and  that 
which  can  cause  anything,  even  an  illusion,  must  be  a 

* Monthly  Bepository,  January  and  October,  1833. 

51  4—2 


52 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


reality.  And  hence,  while  a half-philosophy  disdains 
the  classifications  and  distinctions  indicated  by  popular 
language,  philosophy  carried  to  its  highest  point  frames 
new  ones,  but  rarely  sets  aside  the  old,  content  with 
correcting  and  regularizing  them.  It  cuts  fresh 
channels  for  thought,  but  does  not  fill  up  such  as  it 
finds  ready-made  ; it  traces,  on  the  contrary,  more 
deeply,  broadly,  and  distinctly,  those  into  which  the 
current  has  spontaneously  flowed. 

Let  us  then  attempt,  in  the  way  of  modest  inquiry, 
not  to  coerce  and  confine  nature  within  the  bounds  of 
an  arbitrary  definition,  but  rather  to  find  the  boun- 
daries which  she  herself  has  set,  and  erect  a barrier 
round  them ; not  calling  mankind  to  account  for 
haying  misapplied  the  word  “ poetry,”  but  attempting 
to  clear  up  the  conception  which  they  already  attach 
to  it,  and  to  bring  forward  as  a distinct  principle  that 
which,  as  a vague  feeling,  has  really  guided  them  in 
their  employment  of  the  term. 

The  object  of,  poetry  is  confessedly  to  act  uponjdie 
emotions. ; and  therein  is  poetry  sufficiently  distin- 
guished from  what  Wordsworth  affirms  to^'15e~T5 
logical  opposite,  namely,  not  prose,  but  matter  of  fact 
or  science.  Tfie  one  addresses  its eIf  l;Tri^e^eiref,  th e 
other  to  the  feelings.  The  one  does  its  work  by  con- 
vincing or  persuading,  the  other  by  moving.  The  one 
acts  by  presenting  a proposition  to  the  understanding, 
the  other  by  offering  interesting  objects  of  contemplation 
to  the  sensibilities. 

This,  however,  leaves  us  very  far  from  a definition  ( 
of  poetry.  This  distinguishes  it  from  one  thing,  but 
we  are  bound  to  distinguish  it  from  everything.  To; 
bring  thoughts  or  images  before  the  mind  for  the . 
purpose  of  acting  upon  the  emotions,  does  not  belong ' 
to  poetry  alone.  It  is  equally  the  province  (for ; 
example)  of  the  novelist : and  yet  the  faculty  of  the 
poet  and  that  of  the  novelist  are  as  distinct  as  any 
other  two  faculties  ; as  the  faculties  of  the  novelist  and 
of  the  orator,  or  of  the  poet  and  the  metaphysician. 
The  two  characters  may  be  united,  as  characters  the 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


53 


most  disparate  may ; but  they  have  no  natural  con- 
nexion. 

Many  of  the  greatest  poems  are  in  the  form  of 
fictitious  narratives,  and  in  almost  all  good  serious 
fictions  there  is  true  poetry.  But  there  is  a radical 
distinction  between  the  interest  felt  in  a story  as  such, 
and  the  interest  excited  bv  poetry  ; for  .Jiho— ©na.A& 


is  the  exhibition  of  a state  or  states  of  human  sensi- 
bility ; in  the  other,  of  a series  of  states  of  mere  out- 
ward circumstances.  Now,  all  minds  are  capable  of 
being  affected  more  or  less  by  representations  of  the 
latter  kind,  and  all,  or  almost  all,  by  those  of  the 
former  ; yet  the  two  sources  of  interest  correspond  to 
two  distinct,  and  (as  respects  their  greatest  develop- 
ment) mutually  exclusive,  characters  of  mind. 

At  what  age  is  the  passion  for  a story,  for  almost 
any  kind  of  story,  merely  as  a story,  the  most  intense  ? 
In  childhood.  But  that  also  is  the  age  at  which 
poetry,  even  of  the  simplest  description,  is,  least 
relished  and  least  understood;  because  the  feelings 
with  which  it  is  especially  conversant  are  yet  unde- 
veloped, and  not  having  been  even  in  the  slightest 
degree  experienced,  cannot  be  sympathized  with.  In 
what  stage  of  the  progress  of  society,  again,  is  story- 
telling most  valued,  and  the  story-teller  in  greatest 
request  and  honour  ? — In  a rude  state  like  that  of 
the  Tartars  and  Arabs  at  this  day,  and  of  almost  all 
nations  in  the  earliest  ages.  But  in  this  state  of 
society  there  is  little  poetry  except  ballads,  which  are 
mostly  narrative,  that  is,  essentially  stories,  and 
derive  their  principal  interest  from  the  incidents. 
Considered  as  poetry,  they  are  of  the  lowest  and  most 
elementary  kind : the  feelings  depicted,  or  rather  indi- 
cated, are  the  simplest  our  nature  has  ; such  joys  and 
griefs  as  the  immediate  pressure  of  some  outward 
event  excites  in  rude  minds,  which  live  wholly  im- 
mersed in  outward  things,  and  have  never,  either  from 
choice  or  a force  they  could  not  resist,  turned  them- 


54 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


selves  to  the  contemplation  of  the  world  within. 
Passing  now  from  childhood,  and  from  the  childhood 
of  society,  to  the  grown-up  men  and  women  of  this 
most  grown-up  and  unchildlike  age — t.ha_mi]ids  and, 

of  greatest  depth  and  elevation  ar^.  ^mxapnly 

those  which  take  greatest  delight  in  poetry ; the  shal- 
lowest and  emptiest,  on  the  contrary,  are,  at  all  events, 
not  those  least  addicted  to  novel-reading.  This  accords, 
too,  with  all  analogous  experience  of  human  nature. 
The  sort  of  persons  whom  not  merely  in  books,  but  in 
their  lives,  we  find  perpetually  engaged  in  hunting  for 
excitement  from  without,  are  invariably  those  who  do 
not  possess,  either  in  the  vigour  of  their  intellectual 
powers  or  in  the  depth  of  their  sensibilities,  that  which 
would  enable  them  to  find  ample  excitement  nearer 
home.  The  most  idle  and  frivolous  persons  take  a 
natural  delight  in  fictitious  narrative  ; the  excitement 
it  affords  is  of  the  kind  wrhich  comes  from  without. 
Such  persons  are  rarely  lovers  of  poetry,  though  they 
may  fancy  themselves  so,  because  they  relish  novels 
in  verse.  But  poetry,  which  is  the  delineation  of  the 
deeper  and  more  secret  workings  of  humanmmoflbn, 
is  interesting  only  to  those  to  whom  it  recalls  what 
they  have  felt,  or  whose  imagination  it  stirs  up  to 
conceive  what  they  could  feel,  or  what  they  might 
have  been  able  to  feel,  had  their  outward  circumstances 


en  different. 

Poetry,  When  it  is  really  such,  is  truth ; and  fiction 
also,  if  it  is  good  for  anything,  is  truth  : but  they 
are  different  truths.  Tfre  truth  of  poetry^  is  to  paint 
the  human  soul  truly:  the  truth  of  fiction  is  to  give 
"“aTfr  ue  picfure  of  life.  The  two  kinds  of  knowledge  are 
different,  and  come  by  different  ways,  come  mostly  to 
different  persons.  Great  poets  are  often  proverbially 
ignorant  of  life.  What  they  know  has  come  by  obser- 
vation of  themselves ; they  have  found  within  them 
one  highly  delicate  and  sensitive  specimen  of  human 
nature,  on  which  the  laws  of  emotion  are  written  in 
large  characters,  such  as  can  be  read  off  without 
much  study.  Other  knowledge  of  mankind,  such  as 


POETEY  AND  ITS  VAEIETIES 


55 


comes  to  men  of  the  world  by  outward  experience, 
is  not  indispensable  to  them  as  poets  : but  to  the 
novelist  such  knowledge  is  all  in  all ; he  has  to  describe 
outward  things,  not  the  inward  man  ; actions  and 
events,  not  feelings  ; and  it  will  not  do  for  him  to  be 
numbered  among  those  who,  as  Madame  Eoland  said 
of  Brissot,  know  man  but  not  men . 

All  this  is  no  bar  to  the  possibility  of  combining 
both  elements,  poetry  and  narrative  or  incident,  in 
the  same  work,  and  calling  it  either  a novel  or  a 
poem ; but  so  may  red  and  white  combine  on  the 
same  human  features,  or  on  the  same  canvas.  There 
is  one  order  of  composition  which  requires  the  union 
of  poetry  and  incident,  each  in  its  highest  kind — the 
dramatic.  Even  there  the  two  elements  are  perfectly 
distinguishable,  and  may  exist  of  unequal  quality, 
and  in  the  most  various  proportion.  The  incidents 
of  a dramatic  poem  may  be  scanty  and  ineffective, 
though  the  delineation  of  passion  and  character  may 
be  of  the  highest  order ; as  in  Goethe’s  admirable 
Torquato  Tasso  or  again,  the  story  as  a mere  story 
may  be  well  got  up  for  effect,  as  is  the  case  with  some 
of  the  most  trashy  productions  of  the  Minerva  press : 
it  may  even  be,  what  those  are  not,  a coherent  and 
probable  series  of  events,  though  there  be  scarcely  a 
feeling  exhibited  which  is  not  represented  falsely,  or 
in  a manner  absolutely  commonplace.  The  combina- 
tion of  the  two  excellencies  is  what  renders  Shake- 
speare so  generally  acceptable,  each  sort  of  readers 
finding  in  him  what  is  suitable  to  their  faculties. 
To  the  many  he  is  great  as  a story-teller,  to  the  few 
as  a poet. 

In  limiting  poetry  to  the  delineation  of  states  of 
feeling,  and  denying  the  name  where  nothing  is  de- 
lineated but  outward  objects,  we  may  be  thought  to 
have  done  what  we  promised  to  avoid — to  have  not 
found,  but  made  a definition,  in  opposition  to  the 
usage  of  language,  since  it  is  established  by  common 
consent  that  there  is  a poetry  called  descriptive.  We 
deny  the  charge.  Description  is  not  poetry  because 


56 


POETBY  AND  ITS  VABIETIES 


there  is  descriptive  poetry,  no  more  than  science  is 
poetry  because  there  is  such  a thing  as  a didactic 
poem.  But  an  object  which  admits  of  being  described, 
or  a truth  which  may  fill  a place  in  a scientific 
treatise,  may  also  furnish  an  occasion  for  the  genera- 
tion of  poetry,  which  we  thereupon  choose  to  call 
descriptive  or  didactic.  The  poetry  is  not  in  the  object 
itself,  nor  in  the  scientific  truth  itself,  but  in  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  the  one  and  the  other  may 
be  contemplated.  The  mere  delineation  of  the  dimen- 
sions and  colours  of  external  objects  is  not  poetry,  no 
more  than  a geometrical  ground-plan  of  St.  Peter’s  or 
Westminster  Abbey  is  painting.  Descriptive  poetry 
consists,  no  doubt,  in  description,  but  in  description 
of  things  as  they  appear,  not  as  they  are  ; and  it  paints 
them  not  in  their  bare  and  natural  lineaments,  but 
seen  through  the  medium  and  arrayed  in  the  colours 
of  the  imagination  set  in  action  by  the  feelings.  If  a 
poet  describes  a lion,  he  does  not  describe  him  as  a 
naturalist  would,  nor  even  as  a traveller  would,  who 
was  intent  upon  stating  the  truth,  the  whole  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth.  He  describes  him  by 
imagery,  that  is,  by  suggesting  the  most  striking 
likenesses  and  contrasts  which  might  occur  to  a mind 
contemplating  the  lion,  in  the  state  of  awe,  wonder, 
or  terror,  which  the  spectacle  naturally  excites,  or  is, 
on  the  occasion,  supposed  to  excite.  Now  this  is 
describing  the  lion  professedly,  but  the  state  of  excite- 
ment of  the  spectator  really.  The  lion  may  be  described 
falsely  or  with  exaggeration,  and  the  poetry  be  all  the 
better ; but  if  the  human  emotion  be  not  painted  with 
scrupulous  truth,  the  poetry  is  bad  poetry,  i.e .,  is  not 
poetry  at  all,  but  a failure. 

Thus  far  our  progress  towards  a clear  view  of  the 
essentials  of  poetry  has  brought  us  very  close  to  the 
last  two  attempts  at  a definition  of  poetry  which  we 
happen  to  have  seen  in  print,  both  of  them  by  poets 
and  men  of  genius.  The  one  is  by  Ebenezer  Elliott, 
the  author  of  Corn-Law  Rhymes,  and  other  poems  of 
still  greater  merit.  “ Poetry,”  says  he,  “ is  impassioned 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


57 


truth.”  The  other  is  by  a writer  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine , and  comes,  we  think,  still  nearer  the  mark. 
He  defines  poetry,  “man’s  thoughts  tinged  by  his 
feelings.”  There  is  in  either  definition  a near  approxi- 
mation to  what  we  are  in  search  of.  Every  truth 
which  a human  being  can  enunciate,  every  thought, 
even  every  outward  impression,  which  can  enter  into 
his  consciousness,  may  become  poetry  when  shown 
through  any  impassioned  medium,  when  invested  with 
the  colouring  of  joy,  or  grief,  or  pity,  or  affection,  or 
admiration,  or  reverence,  or  awe,  or  even  hatred  or 
terror : and,  unless  so  coloured,  nothing,  be  it  as 
interesting  as  it  may,  is  poetry.  But  both  these 
definitions  fail  to  discriminate  between  poetry  and 
eloquence.  Eloquence,  as  well  as  poetry,  is  impas- 
sioned truth  ; eloquence,  as  well  as  poetry,  is  thoughts 
coloured  by  the  feelings.  Yet  common  apprehension 
and  philosophic  criticism  alike  recognise  a distinction 
between  the  two : there  is  much  that  every  one  would 
call  eloquence^  which  no  one  would  think  of  classing 
as  poetry.  A question  will  sometimes  arise,  whether 
some  particular  author  is  a poet ; and  those  who  main- 
tain the  negative  commonly  allow,  that  though  not  a 
poet,  he  is  a highly  eloquent  writer.  The  distinction 
between  poetry  and  eloquence  appears  to  us  to  be 
equally  fundamental  with  the  distinction  between 
poetry  and  narrative,  or  between  poetry  and  descrip- 
tion, while  it  is  still  farther  from  having  been  satisfac- 
torily cleared  up  than  either  of  the  others. 

Poetry  and  eloquence  are  both  alike  the  expression 
or  utterance  of  feeling.  But  if  we  may  be  excused 
the  antithesis,  we  should  say  that  eloquence  is  heard , 
poetry  is  overheard.  Eloquence  supposes  an  audience  ; 
the  peculiarity  of  poetry  appears  to  us  to  lie  in  the 
poet’s  utter  unconsciousness  of  a listener.  Poetry  is 
-fee-lmg^confessing  itself  to  itself,  in  moments  of  soli- 
tude, and  embodying  itself  in  symbols  which  are  the 
nearest  possible  representations  of  the  feeling  " m~Ehe 
exact  shape  in  which  it  exists  in  the  poet’s  mind. 
Eloquence  is  feeling  pouring  itself  out  to  other  minds, 


58 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


courting  their  sympathy,  or  endeavouring  to  influence 
their  belief  or  move  them  to  passion  or  to  action. 

All  poetry  is  of  the  nature  of  soliloquy.  It  may  be 
said  that  poetry  which  is  printed  on  hot-pressed  paper 
and  sold  at  a bookseller’s  shop,  is  a soliloquy  in  full 
dress,  and  on  the  stage.  It  is  so  ; but  there  is  nothing 
absurd  in  the  idea  of  such  a mode  of  soliloquizing. 
What  we  have  said  to  ourselves,  we  may  tell  to  others 
afterwards  ; what  we  have  said  or  done  in  solitude,  we 
may  voluntarily  reproduce  when  we  know  that  other 
eyes  are  upon  us.  But  no  trace  of  consciousness  that 
any  eyes  are  upon  us  must  be  visible  in  the  work 
itself.  The  actor  knows  that  there  is  an  audience 
present ; but  if  he  act  as  though  he  knew  it,  he  acts  ill. 
A poet  may  write  poetry  not  only  with  the  intention  of 
printing  it,  but  for  the  express  purpose  of  being  paid  for 
it ; that  it  should  be  poetry,  being  written  under  such 
influences,  is  less  probable ; not,  however,  impossible  ; 
but  no  otherwise  possible  than  if  he  can  succeed  in 
excluding  from  his  work  every  vestige  of  such  lookings- 
forth  into  the  outward  and  every-day  world,  and  can 
express  his  emotions  exactly  as  he  has  felt  them  in 
solitude,  or  as  he  is  conscious  that  he  should  feel  them 
though  they  were  to  remain  for  ever  unuttered,  or  (at 
the  lowest)  as  he  knows  that  others  feel  them  in  similar 
circumstances  of  solitude.  But  when  he  turns  round 
and  addresses  himself  to  another  person ; when  the 
act  of  utterance  is  not  itself  the  end,  but  a means  to  an 
end, — viz.,  by  the  feelings  he  himself  expresses,  to  work 
upon  the  feelings,  or  upon  the  belief,  or  the  will,  of 
another, — when  the  expression  of  his  emotions,  or  of 
his  thoughts  tinged  by  his  emotions,  is  tinged  also  by 
that  purpose,  by  that  desire  of  making  an  impression 
upon  another  mind,  then  it  ceases  to  be  poetry,  and 
becomes  eloquence. 

Poetry,  accordingly,  is  the  natural  fruit  of  solitude 
and' 'meditation  ; eloquence,  of  intercourse  with  the 
world.  The  persons  who  have  most  feeling  of  their 
own,  if  intellectual  culture  has  given  them  a language 
in  which  to  express  it,  have  the  highest  faculty  of 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


59 


poetry ; those  who  best  understand  the  feelings  of 
others,  are  the  most  eloquent.  The  persons,  and  the 
nations,  who  commonly  excel  in  poetry,  are  those 
whose  character  and  tastes  render  them  least  depen- 
dent upon  the  applause,  or  sympathy,  or  concurrence 
of  the  world  in  general.  Those  to  whom  that  applause, 
that  sympathy,  that  concurrence  are  most  necessary, 
generally  excel  most  in  eloquence.  And  hence,  per- 
haps, the  French,  who  are  the  least  poetical  of  all 
great  and  intellectual  nations,  are  among  the  most 
eloquent : the  French,  also,  being  the  most  sociable, 
the  vainest,  and  the  least  self-dependent. 

If  the  above  be,  as  we  believe,  the  true  theory  of  the 
distinction  commonly  admitted  between  eloquence  and 
poetry ; or  even  though  it  be  not  so,  yet  if,  as  we  cannot 
doubt,  the  distinction  above  stated  be  a real  bond  fide 
distinction,  it  will  be  found  to  hold,  not  merely  in  the 
language  of  words,  but  in  all  other  language,  and  to 
intersect  the  whole  domain  of  art. 

Take,  for  example,  music : we  shall  find  in  that  art, 
so  peculiarly  the  expression  of  passion,  two  perfectly 
distinct  styles  ; one  of  which  may  be  called  the  poetry, 
the  other  the  oratory  of  music.  This  difference,  being 
seized,  would  put  an  end  to  much  musical  sectarianism. 
There  has  been  much  contention  whether  the  music  of 
the  modern  Italian  school,  that  of  Rossini  and  his  suc- 
cessors, be  impassioned  or  not.  Without  doubt,  the 
passion  it  expresses  is  not  the  musing,  meditative 
tenderness,  or  pathos,  or  grief  of  Mozart  or  Beethoven. 
Yet  it  is  passion,  but  garrulous  passion — the  passion 
which  pours  itself  into  other  ears  ; and  therein  the 
better  calculated  for  dramatic  effect,  having  a natural 
adaptation  for  dialogue.  Mozart  also  is  great  in 
musical  oratory  ; but  his  most  touching  compositions 
are  in  the  opposite  style — that  of  soliloquy.  Who 
can  imagine  “ Dove  sono  ” heard  ? We  imagine  it 
overheard. 

Purely  pathetic  music  commonly  partakes  of 
soliloquy.  The  soul  is  absorbed  in  its  distress,  and 
though  there  may  be  bystanders,  it  is  not  thinking 


60 


POETEY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


of  them.  When  the  mind  is  looking  within,  and 
not  without,  its  state  does  not  often  or  rapidly  vary  ; 
and  hence  the  even,  uninterrupted  flow,  approaching 
almost  to  monotony,  which  a good  reader,  or  a good 
singer,  will  give  to  words  or  music  of  a pensive  or 
melancholy  cast.  But  grief  taking  the  form  of  a 
prayer,  or  of  a complaint,  becomes  oratorical ; no 
longer  low,  and  even,  and  subdued,  it  assumes  a more 
emphatic  rhythm,  a more  rapidly  returning  accent ; 
instead  of  a few  slow  equal  notes,  following  one  after 
another  at  regular  intervals,  it  crowds  note  upon  note, 
and  often  assumes  a hurry  and  bustle  like  joy.  Those 
who  are  familiar  with  some  of  the  best  of  Rossini’s 
serious  compositions,  such  as  the  air  “Tu  che  i miseri 
conforti,”  in  the  opera  of  Tancredi , or  the  duet 
“ Ebben  per  mia  memoria,”  in  La  Gazza  Ladra , 
will  at  once  understand  and  feel  our  meaning.  Both 
are  highly  tragic  and  passionate ; the  passion  of  both 
is  that  of  oratory,  not  poetry.  The  like  may  be  said 
of  that  most  moving  invocation  in  Beethoven’s 
Fidelio — 


“Komm,  Hoffnxmg,  lass  das  letzte  Stem 
Der  Miide  nicht  erbleichen 

in  which  Madame  Schroder  Devrient  exhibited  such 
consummate  powers  of  pathetic  expression.  How 
different  from  Winter’s  beautiful  “ Paga  fui,”  the  very 
soul  of  melancholy  exhaling  itself  in  solitude  ; fuller  of 
meaning,  and,  therefore,  more  profoundly  poetical  than 
the  words  for  which  it  was  composed — for  it  seems  to 
express  not  simple  melancholy,  but  the  melancholy  of 
remorse. 

If,  from  vocal  music,  we  now  pass  to  instrumental, 
we  may  have  a specimen  of  musical  oratory  in  any  fine 
military  symphony  or  march  : while  the  poetry  of 
music  seems  to  have  attained  its  consummation  in 
Beethoven’s  Overture  to  Egmont,  so  wonderful  in  its 
mixed  expression  of  grandeur  and  melancholy. 

In  the  arts  which  speak  to  the  eye,  the  same  distinc- 
tions will  be  found  to  hold,  not  only  between  poetry 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


61 


and  oratory,  but  between  poetry,  oratory,  narrative, 
and  simple  imitation  or  description. 

Pure  description  is  exemplified  in  a mere  portrait  or 
a mere  landscape — productions  of  art,  it  is  true,  but  of 
the  mechanical  rather  than  of  the  fine  arts,  being  works 
of  simple  imitation,  not  creation.  We  say,  a mere 
portrait,  or  a mere  landscape,  because  it  is  possible  for 
a portrait  or  a landscape,  without  ceasing  to  be  such, 
to  be  also  a picture  ; like  Turner’s  landscapes,  and  the 
great  portraits  by  Titian  or  Vandyke. 

Whatever  in  painting  or  sculpture  expresses  human 
feeling — or  character,  which  is  only  a certain  state  of 
feeling  grown  habitual — may  be  called,  according  to 
circumstances,  the  poetry,  or  the  eloquence,  of  the 
painter’s  or  the  sculptor’s  art : the  poetry,  if  the  feel- 
ing declares  itself  by  such  signs  as  escape  from  us 
when  we  are  unconscious  of  being  seen ; the  oratory, 
if  the  signs  are  those  we  use  for  the  purpose  of  volun- 
tary communication. 

The  narrative  style  answers  to  what  is  called  his- 
torical painting,  which  it  is  the  fashion  among  con- 
noisseurs to  treat  as  the  climax  of  the  pictorial  art. 
That  it  is  the  most  difficult  branch  of  the  art  we  do 
not  doubt,  because,  in  its  perfection,  it  includes  the 
perfection  of  all  the  other  branches  : as  in  like  manner 
an  epic  poem,  though  in  so  far  as  it  is  epic  ( i.e narra- 
tive) it  is  not  poetry  at  all,  is  yet  esteemed  the  greatest 
effort  of  poetic  genius,  because  there  is  no  kind  what- 
ever of  poetry  which  may  not  appropriately  find  a 
place  in  it.  But  an  historical  picture  as  such,  that  is, 
as  the  representation  of  an  incident,  must  necessarily^ 
as  it  seems  to  us,  be  poor  and  ineffective.  The  narra- 
tive powers  of  painting  are  extremely  limited. 
Scarcely  any  picture,  scarcely  even  any  series  of 
pictures,  tells  its  own  story  without  the  aid  of  an  inter- 
preter. But  it  is  the  single  figures  which,  to  us,  are 
the  great  charm  even  of  an  historical  picture.  It  is  in 
these  that  the  power  of  the  art  is  really  seen.  In  the 
attempt  to  narrate,  visible  and  permanent  signs  are 
too  far  behind  the  fugitive  audible  ones,  which  follow 


62 


POETEY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


so  fast  one  after  another,  while  the  faces  and  figures 
in  a narrative  picture,  even  though  they  be  Titian’s, 
stand  still.  Who  would  not  prefer  one  Virgin  and 
Child  of  Raphael,  to  all  the  pictures  which  Rubens, 
with  his  fat,  frouzy  Dutch  Venuses,  ever  painted  ? 
Though  Rubens,  besides  excelling  almost  every  one  in 
his  mastery  over  the  mechanical  parts  of  his  art,  often 
shows  real  genius  in  grouping  his  figures,  the  peculiar 
problem  of  historical  painting.  But  then,  who,  except 
a mere  student  of  drawing  and  colouring,  ever  cared 
to  look  twice  at  any  of  the  figures  themselves  ? The 
power  of  painting  lies  in  poetry,  of  which  Rubens  had 
not  the  slightest  tincture — not  in  narrative,  wherein  he 
might  have  excelled. 

The  single  figures,  however,  in  an  historical  picture, 
are  rather  the  eloquence  of  painting  than  the  poetry : 
they  mostly  (unless  they  are  quite  out  of  place  in  the 
picture)  express  the  feelings  of  one  person  as  modified 
by  the  presence  of  others.  Accordingly  the  minds 
whose  bent  leads  them  rather  to  eloquence  than  to 
poetry,  rush  to  historical  painting.  The  French 
painters,  for  instance,  seldom  attempt,  because  they 
could  make  nothing  of,  single  heads,  like  those  glorious 
ones  of  the  Italian  masters,  with  which  they  might 
feed  themselves  day  after  day  in  their  own  Louvre. 
They  must  all  be  historical ; and  they  are,  almost  to  a 
man,  attitudinizers.  If  we  wished  to  give  any  young 
artist  the  most  impressive  warning  our  imagination 
could  devise  against  that  kind  of  vice  in  the  pictorial, 
which  corresponds  to  rant  in  the  histrionic  art,  we 
would  advise  him  to  walk  once  up  and  once  down  the 
gallery  of  the  Luxembourg.  Every  figure  in  French 
painting  or  statuary  seems  to  be  showing  itself  off 
before  spectators  ; they  are  not  poetical,  but  in  the 
worst  style  of  corrupted  eloquence. 

II. 

Nascitur  Poeta  is  a maxim  of  classical  antiquity, 
which  has  passed  to  these  latter  days  with  less  ques- 
tioning than  most  of  the  doctrines  of  that  early  age. 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


63 


When  it  originated,  the  human  faculties  were  occupied, 
fortunately  for  posterity,  less  in  examining  how  the 
works  of  genius  are  created,  than  in  creating  them  : 
and  the  adage,  probably,  had  no  higher  source  than 
the  tendency  common  among  mankind  to  consider  all 
power  which  is  not  visibly  the  effect  of  practice,  all 
skill  which  is  not  capable  of  being  reduced  to  mechani- 
cal rules,  as  the  result  of  a peculiar  gift.  Yet  this 
aphorism,  born  in  the  infancy  of  psychology,  will 
perhaps  be  found,  now  when  that  science  is  in  its 
adolescence,  to  be  as  true  as  an  epigram  ever  is,  that 
is,  to  contain  some  truth : truth,  however,  which  has 
been  so  compressed  and  bent  out  of  shape,  in  order  to 
tie  it  up  into  so  small  a knot  of  only  two  words  that  it 
requires  an  almost  infinite  amount  of  unrolling  and 
laying  straight,  before  it  will  resume  its  just  propor- 
tions. 

We  are  not  now  intending  to  remark  upon  the 
grosser  misapplications  of  this  ancient  maxim,  which 
have  engendered  so  many  races  of  poetasters.  The 
days  are  gone  by,  when  every  raw  youth  whose  bor- 
rowed phantasies  have  set  themselves  to  a borrowed 
tune,  mistaking,  as  Coleridge  says,  an  ardent  desire  of 
poetic  reputation  for  poetic  genius,  while  unable  to 
disguise  from  himself  that  he  had  taken  no  means 
whereby  he  might  become  a poet,  could  fancy  himself 
a born  one.  Those  who  would  reap  without  sowing, 
and  gain  the  victory  without  fighting  the  battle,  are 
ambitious  now  of  another  sort  of  distinction,  and  are 
born  novelists,  or  public  speakers,  not  poets.  And  the 
wiser  thinkers  understand  and  acknowledge  that  poetic 
excellence  is  subject  to  the  same  necessary  conditions 
with  any  other  mental  endowment ; and  that  to  no 
one  of  the  spiritual  benefactors  of  mankind  is  a higher 
or  a more  assiduous  intellectual  culture  needful  than 
to  the  poet.  It  is  true,  he  possesses  this  advantage 
over  others  who  use  the  “ instrument  of  words,”  that, 
of  the  truths  which  he  utters,  a larger  proportion  are 
derived  from  personal  consciousness,  and  a smaller 
from  philosophic  investigation.  But  the  power  itself 


64 


POETEY  AND  ITS  VABIETIES 


of  discriminating  between  what  really  is  consciousness, 
and  what  is  only  a process  of  inference  completed  in  a 
single  instant — and  the  capacity  of  distinguishing 
whether  that  of  which  the  mind  is  conscious  be  an 
eternal  truth,  or  but  a dream — are  among  the  last 
results  of  the  most  matured  and  perfect  intellect. 
Not  to  mention  that  the  poet,  no  more  than  any  other 
person  who  writes,  confines  himself  altogether  to  in- 
tuitive truths,  nor  has  any  means  of  communicating 
even  these  but  by  words,  every  one  of  which  derives 
all  its  power  of  conveying  a meaning,  from  a whole 
host  of  acquired  notions,  and  facts  learnt  by  study  and 
experience. 

Nevertheless,  it  seems  undeniable  in  point  of  fact, 
and  consistent  with  the  principles  of  a sound  meta- 
physics, that  there  are  poetic  natures.  There  is  a 
mental  and  physical  constitution  or  temperament, 
peculiarly  fitted  for  poetry.  This  temperament  will 
not  of  itself  make  a poet,  no  more  than  the  soil  will 
the  fruit ; and  as  good  fruit  may  be  raised  by  cul- 
ture from  indifferent  soils,  so  may  good  poetry  from 
naturally  unpoetical  minds.  But  the  poetry  of  one 
who  is  a poet  by  nature,  will  be  clearly  and  broadly 
distinguishable  from  the  poetry  of  mere  culture.  It 
may  not  be  truer ; it  may  not  be  more  useful ; but  it 
will  be  different : fewer  will  appreciate  it,  even  though 
many  should  affect  to  do  so ; but  in  those  few  it  will 
find  a keener  sympathy,  and  will  yield  them  a deeper 
enjoyment. 

One  may  write  genuine  poetry,  and  not  be  a poet ; 
for  whosoever  writes  out  truly  any  human  feeling, 
writes  poetry/'  All  persons,  even  the  most  unimagina- 
tive, in  moments  of  strong  emotion,  speak  poetry  ; 
and  hence  the  drama  is  poetry,  which  else  were  always 
prose,  except  when  a poet  is  one  of  the  characters. 
What  is, . poetry,  but  .the  thoughj^and 
emotion  spontaneously  embodies  itself  ? As  there  are 
few  who  are  not,  at  least  for  some  moments  and  in 
some  situations,  capable  of  some  strong  feeling,  poetry 
is  natural  to  most  persons  at  some  period  of  their  lives. 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


65 


And  any  one  whose  feelings  are  genuine,  though  but 
of  the  average  strength — if  he  be  not  diverted  by 
uncongenial  thoughts  or  occupations  from  the  indul- 
gence of  them,  and  if  he  acquire  by  culture,  as  all 
persons  may,  the  faculty  of  delineating  them  correctly 
— has  it  in  his  power  to  be  a poet,  so  far  as  a life 
passed  in  writing  unquestionable  poetry  may  be  con- 
sidered to  confer  that  title.  But  ought  it  to  do  so  ? 
Yes,  perhaps,  in  a collection  of  “ British  Poets.”  But 
1“  poet  ” is  the  name  also  of  a variety  of  man,  not 
solely  of  the  author  of  a particular  variety  of  book : 
now,  to  have  written  whole  volumes  of  real  poetry  is 
possible  to  almost  all  kinds  of  characters,  and  implies 
no  greater  peculiarity  of  mental  construction,  than  to 
be  the  author  of  a history  or  a novel. 

Whom,  then,  shall  we  call  poets  ? Those  who  are 
so  constituted,  that  emotions  are  the  links  of  associa- 
tion by  which  their  ideas,  both  sensuous  and  spiritual, 
are  connected  together.  This  constitution  belongs 
(within  certain  limits)  to  all  in  whom  poetry  is  a per- 
vading principle.  In  all  others,  poetry  is  something 
extraneous  and  superinduced  : something  out  of  them- 
selves, foreign  to  the  habitual  course  of  their  every- 
day lives  and  characters ; a world  to  which  they  may 
make  occasional  visits,  but  where  they  are  sojourners, 
not  dwellers,  and  which,  when  out  of  it,  or  even  when 
in  it,  they  think  of,  peradventure,  but  as  a phantom- 
world,  a place  of  ignes  fatui  and  spectral  illusions. 
Those  only  who  have  the  peculiarity  of  association 
which  we  have  mentioned,  and  which  is  a natural 
though  not  a universal  consequence  of  intense  sen- 
sibility, instead  of  seeming  not  themselves  when  they 
are  uttering  poetry,  scarcely  seem  themselves  when 
uttering  anything  to  which  poetry  is  foreign.  What- 
ever be  the  thing  which  they  are  contemplating,  if  it 
be  capable  of  connecting  itself  with  their  emotions,  the 
aspect  under  which  it  first  and  most  naturally  paints 
itself  to  them,  is  its  poetic  aspect.  The  poet  of  culture 
sees  his  object  in  prose,  and  describes  it  in  poetry ; the 
poet  of  nature  actually  sees  it  in  poetry. 


5 


66 


POETEY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


This  point  is  perhaps  worth  some  little  illustration  ; 
the  rather,  as  metaphysicians  (the  ultimate  arbiters  of 
all  philosophical  criticism),  while  they  have  busied 
themselves  for  two  thousand  years,  more  or  less,  about 
the  few  universal  laws  of  human  nature,  have  strangely 
neglected  the  analysis  of  its  diversities . Of  these,  none 
lie  deeper  or  reach  further  than  the  varieties  which 
difference  of  nature  and  of  education  makes  in  what 
may  be  termed  the  habitual  bond  of  association.  In  a 
mind  entirely  uncultivated,  which  is  also  without  any 
strong  feelings,  objects  whether  of  sense  or  of  intellect 
arrange  themselves  in  the  mere  casual  order  in  which 
they  have  been  seen,  heard,  or  otherwise  perceived. 
Persons  of  this  sort  may  be  said  to  think  chrono- 
logically. If  they  remember  a fact,  it  is  by  reason  of 
a fortuitous  coincidence  with  some  trifling  incident  or 
circumstance  which  took  place  at  the  very  time.  If 
they  have  a story  to  tell,  or  testimony  to  deliver  in  a 
witness-box,  their  narrative  must  follow  the  exact 
order  in  which  the  events  took  place  : dodge  them, 
and  the  thread  of  association  is  broken ; they  cannot 
go  on.  Their  associations,  to  use  the  language  of 
philosophers,  are  chiefly  of  the  successive,  not  the  syn- 
chronous kind,  and  whether  successive  or  synchronous, 
are  mostly  casual. 

To  the  man  of  science,  again,  or  of  business,  objects 
group  themselves  according  to  the  artificial  classifica- 
tions which  the  understanding  has  voluntarily  made 
for  the  convenience  of  thought  or  of  practice.  But 
where  any  of  the  impressions  are  vivid  and  intense, 
the  associations  into  which  these  enter  are  the  ruling 
ones : it  being  a well-known  law  of  association,  that  1 
the  stronger  a feeling  is,  the  more  quickly  and  strongly  * 
it  associates  itself  with  any  other  object  or  feeling.  ) 
Where,  therefore,  nature  has  given  strong  feelings, 
and  education  has  not  created  factitious  tendencies  J 
stronger  than  the  natural  ones,  the  prevailing  associa-  1 
tions  will  be  those  which  connect  objects  and  ideas 
with  emotions,  and  with  each  other  through  the  inter- 
vention of  emotions.  Thoughts  and  images  will  be 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


67 


linked  together,  according  to  the  similarity  of  the 
feelings  which  cling  to  them.  A thought  will  intro- 
duce a thought  by  first  introducing  a feeling  which  is 
allied  with  it.  At  the  centre  of  each  group  of  thoughts 
or  images  will  be  found  a feeling ; and  the  thoughts 
or  images  will  be  there  only  because  the  feeling  was 
there.  The  combinations  which  the  mind  puts  to- 
gether, the  pictures  which  it  paints,  the  wholes  which 
Imagination  constructs  out  of  the  materials  supplied 
by  Fancy,  will  be  indebted  to  some  dominant  feeling , 
not  as  in  other  natures  to  a dominant  thought , for 
their  unity  and  consistency  of  character,  for  what 
distinguishes  them  from  incoherencies. 

The  difference,  then,  between  the  poetry  of  a poet, 
and  the  poetry  of  a cultivated  but  not  naturally  poetic 
mind,  is,  that  in  the  latter,  with  however  bright  a 
halo  of  feeling  the  thought  may  be  surrounded  and 
glorified,  the  thought  itself  is  always  the  conspicuous 
object;  while  the  poetry  of  a poet  i&H^oling>-"i4mel£. 
employingT&ought  only  as  the  medium  of  its  expres- 
sion. In  the  one,  feeling  waits  upon  thought ; in 
the  other,  thought  upon  feeling.  The  one  writer  has 
a distinct  aim,  common  to  him  with  any  other  didactic 
author ; he  desires  to  convey  the  thought,  »n4.he 
conveys  it  clothed  in  the  feelings  which  it  excites  in 
himself,  or  which  he  deems  most  appropriate  to  it. 
The  other  merely  pours  forth  the  overflowing  of  his 
feelings  ; and  all  the  thoughts  which  those  feelings 
suggest  are  floated  promiscuously  along  the  stream. 

It  may  assist  in  rendering  our  meaning  intelligible, 
if  we  illustrate  it  by  a parallel  between  the  two  Eng- 
lish authors  of  our  own  day,  who  have  produced  the 
greatest  quantity  of  true  and  enduring  poetry,  Words- 
worth and  Shelley.  Apter  instances  could  not  be 
wished  for  ; the  one  might  be  cited  as  the  type,  the 
exemplar , of  what  the  poetry  of  culture  may  accom- 
plish : the  other  as  perhaps  the  most  striking  example 
ever  known  of  the  poetic  temperament.  How  different, 
.accordingly,  is  the  poetry  of  these  two  great  writers  ! 
,In  Wordsworth,  the  poetry  is  almost  always  the  mere 
u*  5—2 


68 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


setting  of  a thought.  The  thought  may  be  more 
valuable  than  the  settings  or  it  may  be  less  valuable, 
but  there  can  be  no  question  as  to  which  was  first  in 
his  mind : what  he  is  impressed  with,  and  what  he 
is  anxious  to  impress,  is  some  proposition,  more  or  less 
distinctly  conceived;  some  truth,  or  something  which 
he  deems  such.  ^He  lets  the  thought  dwell  in  his 
mind,  till  it  excites,  as  is  the  nature  of  thought,  other 
thoughts,  and  also  such  feelings  as  the  measure  of 
his  sensibility  is  adequate  to  supply.  Among  these 
thoughts  and  feelings,  had  he  chosen  a different  walk 
of  authorship  (and  there  are  many  in  which  he  might 
equally  have  excelled),  he  would  probably  have  made  a 
different  selection  of  media  for  enforcing  the  parent 
thought : his  habits,  however,  being  those  of  poetic 
composition,  he  selects  in  preference  the  strongest 
feelings,  and  the  thoughts  with  which  most  of  feel- 
ing is  naturally  or  habitually  connected.  His  poetry, 
therefore,  may  be  defined  to  be,  his  thoughts,  coloured 
by,  and  impressing  themselves  by  means  of,  emotions. 
Such  poetry,  Wordsworth  has  occupied  a long  life  Yn 
producing.  And  well  and  wisely  has  he  so  done. 
Criticisms,  no  doubt,  may  be  made  occasionally  both 
upon  the  thoughts  themselves,  and  upon  the  skill  he 
has  demonstrated  in  the  choice  of  his  media  : for,  an 
affair  of  skill  and  study,  in  the  most  rigorous  sense,  it 
evidently  was.  But  he  has  not  laboured  in  vain  : he 
has  exercised,  and  continues  to  exercise,  a powerful, 
and  mostly  a highly  beneficial  influence  over  the  for- 
mation and  growth  of  not  a few  of  the  most  cultivated 
and  vigorous  of  the  youthful  minds  of  our  time,  over 
whose  heads  poetry  of  the  opposite  description  would 
have  flown,  for  want  of  an  original  organization, 
physical  or  mental,  in  sympathy  with  it. 
f On  the  other  hand,  Wordsworth’s  poetry  is  never 
- • bounding,  never  ebullient ; has  little  even  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  spontaneousness  : the  well  is  never  so  full 
that  it  overflows.  There  is  an  air  of  calm  deliberate- 
ness about  all  he  writes,  which  is  not  characteristic  of 


the  poetic  temperament : his  poetry  seems  one  thing 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


69 


himself  another  ; he  seems  to  be  poetical  because  he 
wills  to  be  so,  not  because  he  cannot  help  it : did  he 
will  to  dismiss  poetry,  he  need  never  again,  it  might 
almost  seem,  have  a poetical  thought.  He  never 
seems  'possessed  by  any  feeling ; no  emotion  seems 
ever  so  strong  as  to  have  entire  sway,  for  the  time 
being,  over  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  He  never, 
even  for  the  space  of  a few  stanzas,  appears  entirely 
given  up  to  exultation,  or  grief,  or  pity,  or  love,  or 
admiration,  or  devotion,  or  even  animal  spirits.  He 
now  and  then,  though  seldom,  attempts  to  write  as  if 
he  were  ; and  never,  we  think,  without  leaving  an  im- 
pression of  poverty  : as  the  brook  which  on  nearly 
level  ground  quite  fills  its  banks,  appears  but  a thread 
when  running  rapidly  down  a precipitous  declivity. 
He  has  feeling  enough  to  form  a decent,  graceful,  even 
' beautiful  decoration  to  a thought  which  is  in  itself  in- 
teresting and  moving  ; but  not  so  much  as  suffices  to 
stir  up  the  soul  by  mere  sympathy  with  itself  in  its 
simplest  manifestation,  nor  enough  to  summon  up  that 
array  of  “ thoughts  of  power  ” which  in  a richly  stored 
^tnind  always  attends  the  call  of  really  intense  feeling. 
It  is  for  this  reason,  doubtless,  that  the  genius  of 
Wordsworth  is  essentially  unlyrical.  Lyric  poetry, 
as  it  was  the  earliest  kind,  is  also,  if  the  view  we  are 
now  taking  of  poetry  be  correct,  more  eminently  and 
peculiarly  poetry  than  any  other  : it  is  the  poetry  most 
natural  to  a really  poetic  temperament,  and  least 
capable  of  being  successfully  imitated  by  one  not  so 
endowed  by  nature. 

Shelley  is  the  very  reverse  of  all  this.  Where 
Wordsworth  is  strong,  he  is  weak  ; where  Wordsworth 
is  weak,  he  is  strong.  Culture,  that  culture  by  which 
Wordsworth  has  reared  from  his  own  inward  nature 
the  richest  harvest  ever  brought  forth  by  a soil  of  so 
little  depth,  is  precisely  what  was  wanting  to  Shelley  : 
or  let  us  rather  say,  he  had  not,  at  the  period  of  his 
deplorably  early  death,  reached  sufficiently  far  in  that 
intellectual  progression  of  which  he  was  capable,  and 
which,  if  it  has  done  so  much  for  greatly  inferior 


70 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


natures,  might  have  made  of  him  the  most  perfect,  as 
he  was  already  the  most  gifted  of  our  poets.  For  him, 
voluntary  mental  discipline  had  done  little  : the  vivid- 
ness of  his  emotions  and  of  his  sensations  had  done  all. 
He  seldom  follows  up  an  idea;  it  starts  into  life, 
summons  from  the  fairy-land  of  his  inexhaustible  fancy 
some  three  or  four  bold  images,  then  vanishes,  and 
straight  he  is  off  on  the  wings  of  some  casual  associa- 
tion into  quite  another  sphere.  He  had  scarcely  yet 
acquired  the  consecutiveness  of  thought  necessary  for 
a long  poem ; his  more  ambitious  compositions  too 
often  resemble  the  scattered  fragments  of  a mirror  ; 
colours  brilliant  as  life,  single  images  without  end,  but 
no  picture.  It  is  only  when  under  the  over-ruling  in- 
fluence of  some  one  state  of  feeling,  either  actually 
experienced,  or  summoned  up  in  the  vividness  of 
reality  by  a fervid  imagination,  that  he  writes  as  a 
great  poet  ; unity  of  feeling  being  to  him  the  har- 
monizing principle  which  a central  idea  is  to  minds 
of  another  class,  and  supplying  the  coherency  and 
consistency  which  would  else  have  been  wanting. 
Thus  it  is  in  many  of  his  smaller,  and  especially  his 
lyrical  poems.  They  are  obviously  written  to  exhale, 
perhaps  to  relieve,  a state  of  feeling,  or  of  conception 
of  feeling,  almost  oppressive  from  its  vividness.  The 
thoughts  and  imagery  are  suggested  by  the  feeling, 
and  are  such  as  it  finds  unsought.  The  state  of  feeling 
may  be  either  of  soul  or  of  sense,  or  oftener  (might  we 
not  say  invariably  ?)  of  both : for  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment is  usually,  perhaps  always,  accompanied  by  ex- 
quisite senses.  The  exciting  cause  may  be  either  an 
object  or  an  idea.  But  whatever  of  sensation  enters 
into  the  feeling,  must  not  be  local,  or  consciously 
organic  ; it  is  a condition  of  the  whole  frame,  not  of  a 
part  only.  Like  the  state  of  sensation  produced  by  a 
fine  climate,  or  indeed  like  all  strongly  pleasurable  or 
painful  sensations  in  an  impassioned  nature,  it  pervades 
the  entire  nervous  system.  States  of  feeling,  whether 
sensuous  or  spiritual,  which  thus  possess  the  whole 
being,  are  the  fountains  of  that  which  we  have  called 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


71 


the  poetry  of  poets  ; and  which  is  little  else  than  a 
pouring  forth  of  the  thoughts  and  images  that  pass 
across  the  mind  while  some  permanent  state  of  feeling 
is  occupying  it. 

To  the  same  original  fineness  of  organization, 
Shelley  was  doubtless  indebted  for  another  of  his 
rarest  gifts,  that  exuberance  of  imagery,  which  when 
unrepressed,  as  in  many  of  his  poems  it  is,  amounts  to 
a fault.  The  susceptibility  of  his  nervous  system, 
which  made  his  emotions  intense,  made  also  the 
impressions  of  his  external  senses  deep  and  clear : 
and  agreeably  to  the  law  of  association  by  which, 
as  already  remarked,  the  strongest  impressions  are 
those  which  associate  themselves  the  most  easily  and 
strongly,  these  vivid  sensations  were  readily  recalled 
to  mind  by  all  objects  or  thoughts  which  had  co- 
existed with  them,  and  by  all  feelings  which  in  any 
degree  resembled  them.  Never  did  a fancy  so  teem 
with  sensuous  imagery  as  Shelley’s.  dAVordsworth 
economizes  an  image,  and  detains  it  until  he  has  dis- 
tilled all  the  poetry  out  of  it,  and  it  will  not  yield  a drop 
more  : Shelley  lavishes  his  with  a profusion  which  is 
unconscious  because  it  is  inexhaustible. 

If,  then,  the  maxim  Nascitur  poeta , mean,  either 
that  the  power  of  producing  poetical  compositions  is 
a peculiar  faculty  which  the  poet  brings  into  the  world 
with  him,  which  grows  with  his  growth  like  any  of  his 
bodily  powers,  and  is  as  independent  of  culture  as  his 
height,  and  his  complexion;  or  that  any  natural 
peculiarity  whatever  is  implied  in  producing  poetry, 
real  poetry,  and  in  any  quantity — such  poetry  too,  as, 
to  the  majority  of  educated  and  intelligent  readers, 
shall  appear  quite  as  good  as,  or  even  better  than,  any 
other ; in  either  sense  the  doctrine  is  false.  And 
nevertheless,  there  is  poetry  which  could  not  emanate 
but  from  a mental  and  physical  constitution  peculiar, 
not  in  the  kind,  but  in  the  degree  of  its  susceptibility  : 
a constitution  which  makes  its  possessor  capable  of 
greater  happiness  than  mankind  in  general,  and  also  of 
greater  unhappiness ; and  because  greater,  so  also  more. 


72 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


various.  And  such  poetry,  to  all  who  know  enough  of 
nature  to  own  it  as  being  in  nature,  is  much  more 
poetry,  is  poetry  in  a far  higher  sense,  than  any  other ; 
since  the  common  element  of  all  poetry,  that  which 
constitutes  poetry,  human  feeling,  enters  far  more 
largely  into  this  than  into  the  poetry  of  culture.  Not 
only  because  the  natures  which  we  have  called  poetical 
really  feel  more,  and  consequently  have  more  feeling 
to  express ; but  because,  the  capacity  of  feeling  being 
so  great,  feeling,  when  excited  and  not  yoluntarily 
resisted,  seizes  the  helm  of  their  thoughts,  and  the 
succession  of  ideas  and  images  becomes  the  mere 
utterance  of  an  emotion;  not,  as  in  other  natures, 
the  emotion  a mere  ornamental  colouring  of  the 
thought. 

Ordinary  education  and  the  ordinary  course  of  life 
are  constantly  at  work  counteracting  this  quality  of 
mind,  and  substituting  habits  more  suitable  to  their 
own  ends  : if  instead  of  substituting  they  were  content 
to  superadd,  there  would  be  nothing  to  complain  of. 
But  when  will  education  consist,  not  in  repressing 
any  mental  faculty  or  power,  from  the  uncontrolled 
action  of  which  danger  is  apprehended,  but  in  training 
up  to  its  proper  strength  the  corrective  and  antagonist 
power  ? 

In  whomsoever  the  quality  which  we  have  described 
exists,  and  is  not  stifled,  that  person  is  a poet.  Doubt- 
less he  is  a greater  poet  in  proportion  as  the  fineness  of 
his  perceptions,  whether  of  sense  or  of  internal  con- 
sciousness, furnishes  him  with  an  ampler  supply  of 
lovely  images — the  vigour  and  richness  of  his  intellect, 
with  a greater  abundance  of  moving  thoughts.  For  it 
is  through  these  thoughts  and  images  that  the  feeling 
speaks,  and  through  their  impressiveness  that  it  im- 
presses itself,  and  finds  response  in  other  hearts  ; and 
from  these  media  of  transmitting  it  (contrary  to  the 
laws  of  physical  nature)  increase  of  intensity  is  reflected 
back  upon  the  feeling  itself.  But  all  these  it  is  possible 
to  have,  and  not  be  a poet  ; they  are  mere  materials, 
which  the  poet  shares  in  common  with  other  people. 


POETBY  AND  ITS  VAKIETIES 


78 


What  constitutes  the  poet  is  not  the  imagery  nor  the 
thoughts,  nor  even  the  feelings,  but  the  law  according 
to  which  they  are  called  up.  rfle  is  a poet,  not  because 
he  has  ideas  of  any  particufhTffund,  but  because  the 
succession  of^his  ideas  is  subordinate  to  the  course  of 
his  emotions.  ") 

Many  Wfionave  never  acknowledged  this  in  theory, 
bear  testimony  to  it  in  their  particular  judgments. 
In  listening  to  an  oration,  or  reading  a written  dis- 
course not  professedly  poetical,  when  do  we  begin  to 
feel  that  the  speaker  or  author  is  putting  off  the 
character  of  the  orator  or  the  prose  writer,  and  is 
passing  into  the  poet  ? Not  when  he  begins  to  show 
strong  feeling ; then  we  merely  say,  he  is  in  earnest,  he 
feels  what  he  says  ; still  less  when  he  expresses  him- 
self in  imagery  : then,  unless  illustration  be  manifestly 
his  sole  object,  we  are  apt  to  say,  this  is  affectation. 
It  is  when  the  feeling  (instead  of  passing  away,  or,  if 
it  continue,  letting  the  train  of  thoughts  run  on  exactly 
as  they  would  have  done  if  there  were  no  influence 
at  work  but  the  mere  intellect)  becomes  itself  the 
originator  of  another  train  of  association,  which  expels 
or  blends  with  the  former  ; when  (for  example)  either 
his  words,  or  the  mode  of  their  arrangement,  are  such 
as  we  spontaneously  use  only  when  in  a state  of  excite- 
ment, proving  that  the  mind  is  at  least  as  much  occu- 
pied by  a passive  state  of  its  own  feelings,  as  by  the 
desire  of  attaining  the  premeditated  end  which  the 
discourse  has  in  view.  * 

Our  judgments  of  authors  who  lay  actual  claim  to 

* And  this,  we  may  remark  by  the  way,  seems  to  point  to 
the  true  theory  of  poetic  diction  ; and  to  suggest  the  true 
answer  to  as  much  as  is  erroneous  of  Wordsworth’s  celebrated 
doctrine  on  that  subject.  For  on  the  one  hand,  all  language 
which  is  the  natural  expression  of  feeling,  is  really  poetical, 
and  will  be  felt  as  such,  apart  from  conventional  associations ; 
but  on  the  other,  whenever  intellectual  culture  has  afforded 
a choice  between  several  modes  of  expressing  the  same 
emotion,  the  stronger  the  feeling  is,  the  more  naturally  and 
certainly  will  it  prefer  the  language  which  is  most  peculiarly 
appropriated  to  itself,  and  kept  sacred  from  the  contact  of 
more  vulgar  objects  of  contemplation. 


74 


POETBY  AND  ITS  VABIETIES 


the  title  of  poets,  follow  the  same  principle.  When- 
ever, after  a writer’s  meaning  is  fully  understood,  it  is 
still  matter  of  reasoning  and  discussion  whether  he  is 
a poet  or  not,  he  will  be  found  to  be  wanting  in  the 
characteristic  peculiarity  of  association  so  often  adverted 
to.  When,  on  the  contrary,  after  reading  or  hearing 
one  or  two  passages,  we  instinctively  and  without 
hesitation  cry  out,  This  is  a poet,  the  probability  is, 
that  the  passages  are  strongly  marked  with  this 
peculiar  quality.  And  we  may  add  that  in  such  case, 
a critic  who,  not  having  sufficient  feeling  to  respond 
to  the  poetry,  is  also  without  sufficient  philosophy  to 
understand  it  though  he  feel  it  not,  will  be  apt  to  pro- 
nounce, not  “ this  is  prose,”  but  “this  is  exaggeration,” 
“ this  is  mysticism,”  or,  “this  is  nonsense.” 

Although  a philosopher  cannot,  by  culture,  make 
himself,  in  the  peculiar  sense  in  which  we  now  use 
the  term,  a poet,  unless  at  least  he  have  that  pecu- 
liarity of  nature  which  would  probably  have  made 
poetry  his  earliest  pursuit ; a poet  may  always,  by 
culture,  make  himself  a philosopher.  The  poetic 
laws  of  association  are  by  no  means  incompatible  with 
the  more  ordinary  laws ; are  by  no  means  such  as 
must  have  their  course,  even  though  a deliberate  pur- 
pose require  their  suspension.  If  the  peculiarities  of 
the  poetic  temperament  were  uncontrollable  in  any 
poet,  they  might  be  supposed  so  in  Shelley ; yet  how 
powerfully,  in  The  Cenci , does  he  coerce  and  restrain 
all  the  characteristic  qualities  of  his  genius  ; what 
severe  simplicity,  in  place  of  his  usual  barbaric  splen- 
dour ; how  rigidly  does  he  keep  the  feelings  and  the 
imagery  in  subordination  to  the  thought. 

The  investigation  of  nature  requires  no  habits  or 
qualities  of  mind,  but  such  as  may  always  be  acquired 
by  industry  and  mental  activity.  Because  at  one 
time  the  mind  may  be  so  given  up  to  a state  of  feeling, 
that  the  succession  of  its  ideas  is  determined  by  the 
present  enjoyment  or  suffering  which  pervades  it, 
this  is  no  reason  but  that  in  the  calm  retirement  of 
study,  when  under  no  peculiar  excitement  either  of 


POETEY  AND  ITS  VABIETIES 


75 


the  outward  or  of  the  inward  sense,  it  may  form  any 
combinations,  or  pursue  any  trains  of  ideas,  which  are 
most  conducive  to  the  purposes  of  philosophic  inquiry ; 
and  may,  while  in  that  state,  form  deliberate  convic- 
tions, from  which  no  excitement  will  afterwards  make 
it  swerve.  Might  we  not  go  even  further  than  this  ? 
We  shall  not  pause  to  ask  whether  it  be  not  a misun- 
derstanding of  the  nature  of  passionate  feeling  to 
imagine  that  it  is  inconsistent  with  calmness  ; whether 
they  who  so  deem  of  it,  do  not  mistake  passion  in  the 
militant  or  antagonistic  state,  for  the  type  of  passion 
universally ; do  not  confound  passion  struggling 
towards  an  outward  object,  with  passion  brooding 
over  itself.  But  without  entering  into  this  deeper 
investigation,  that  capacity  of  strong  feeling,  which 
is  supposed  necessarily  to  disturb  the  judgment,  is 
also  the  material  out  of  which  all  motives  are  made, 
the  motives,  consequently,  which  lead  human  beings 
to  the  pursuit  of  truth.  /The  greater  the  individual’s 
capability  of  happiness  arid  of  misery,  the  stronger 
interest  has  that  individual  in  arriving  at  truth  ; and 
when  once  that  interest  is  felt,  an  impassioned  nature 
is  sure  to  pursue  this,  as  to  pursue  any  other  object, 
with  greater  ardour  ; for  energy  of  character  is  com- 
monly the  offspring  of  strong  feeling.]  If,  therefore, 
the  most  impassioned  natures  do  ntTT  ripen  into  the 
most  powerful  intellects,  it  is  always  from  defect  of 
culture,  or  something  wrong  in  the  circumstances  by 
which  the  being  has  originally  or  successively  been 
surrounded.  Undoubtedly  strong  feelings  require  a 
strong  intellect  to  carry  them,  as  more  sail  requires 
more  ballast : and  when,  from  neglect,  or  bad  educa- 
tion, that  strength  is  wanting,  no  wonder  if  the  grandest 
and  swiftest  vessels  make  the  most  utter  wreck. 

Where,  as  in  some  of  our  older  poets,  a poetic 
nature  has  been  united  with  logical  and  scientific 
culture,  the  peculiarity  of  association  arising  from 
the  finer  nature  so  perpetually  alternates  with  the 
associations  attainable  by  commoner  natures  trained 
to  high  perfection,  that  its  own  particular  law  is  not 


76 


POETRY  AND  ITS  VARIETIES 


so  conspicuously  characteristic  of  the  result  produced, 
as  in  a poet  like  Shelley,  to  whom  systematic  intel- 
lectual culture,  in  a measure  proportioned  to  the 
intensity  of  his  own  nature,  has  been  wanting. 
Whether  the  superiority  will  naturally  be  on  the  side 
of  the  philosopher-poet  or  of  the  mere  poet— whether 
the  writings  of  the  one  ought,  as  a whole,  to  be  truer, 
and  their  influence  more  beneficent,  than  those  of  the 
other — is  too  obvious  in  principle  to  need  statement : 
it  would  be  absurd  to  doubt  whether  two  endowments 
are  better  than  one  ; whether  truth  is  more  certainly 
arrived  at  by  two  processes,  verifying  and  correcting 
each  other,  than  by  one  alone.  Unfortunately,  in 
practice  the  matter  is  not  quite  so  simple ; there  the 
question  often  is,  which  is  least  prejudicial  to  the 
intellect,  uncultivation  or  malcultivation.  For,  as  long 
as  education  consists  chiefly  of  the  mere  inculcation  of 
traditional  opinions,  many  of  which,  from  the  mere 
fact  that  the  human  intellect  has  not  yet  reached  per- 
fection, must  necessarily  be  false ; so  long  as  even 
those  who  are  best  taught,  are  rather  taught  to  know 
the  thoughts  of  others  than  to  think,  it  is  not  always 
clear  that  the  poet  of  acquired  ideas  has  the  advantage 
over  him  whose  feeling  has  been  his  sole  teacher.  For, 
the  depth  and  durability  of  wrong  as  well  as  of  right 
impressions,  is  proportional  to  the  fineness  of  the 
material ; and  they  who  have  the  greatest  capacity  of 
natural  feeling  are  generally  those  whose  artificial  feel- 
ings are  the  strongest.  Hence,  doubtless,  among  other 
reasons,  it  is,  that  in  an  age  of  revolutions  in  opinion, 
the  cotemporary  poets,  those  at  least  who  deserve 
the  name,  those  who  have  any  individuality  of  charac- 
ter, if  they  are  not  before  their  age,  are  almost  sure  to 
be  behind  it.  An  observation  curiously  verified  all 
over  Europe  in  the  present  century.  Nor  let  it  be 
thought  disparaging.  However  urgent  may  be  the 
necessity  for  a breaking  up  of  old  modes  of  belief,  the 
most  strong-minded  and  discerning,  next  to  those  who 
head  the  movement,  are  generally  those  who  bring  up 
the  rear  of  it. 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S 
DISCOURSE  ON  THE  STUDIES  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CAMBRIDGE* 

If  we  were  asked  for  what  end,  above  all  others,  en- 
dowed universities  exist,  or  ought  to  exist,  we  should 
answer — To  keep  alive  philosophy.  This,  too,  is  the 
ground  on  which  of  late  years,  our  own  national  en- 
dowments have  chiefly  been  defended.  To  educate 
common  minds  for  the  common  business  of  life,  a 
public  provision  may  be  useful,  but  is  not  indispen- 
sable : nor  are  there  wanting  arguments,  not  conclusive, 
yet  of  considerable  strength,  to  show  that  it  is  undesir- 
able. Whatever  individual  competition  does  at  all,  it 
commonly  does  best.  All  things  in  which  the  public 
are  adequate  judges  of  excellence,  are  best  supplied 
where  the  stimulus  of  individual  interest  is  the  most 
active  ; and  that  is  where  pay  is  in  proportion  to  exer- 
tion : not  where  pay  is  made  sure  in  the  first  instance, 
and  the  only  security  for  exertion  is  the  superintendence 
of  government ; far  less  where,  as  in  the  English 
universities,  even  that  security  has  been  successfully 
excluded.  But  there  is  an  education  of  which  it  can- 
not be  pretended  that  the  public  are  competent  judges  ; 
the  education  by  which  great  minds  are  formed.  To 
rear  up  minds  with  aspirations  and  faculties  above  the 
herd,  capable  of  leading  on  their  countrymen  to  greater 
achievements  in  virtue,  intelligence,  and  social  well- 
being; to  do  this,  and  likewise  so  to  educate  the 
leisured  classes  of  the  community  generally,  that  they 
may  participate  as  far  as  possible  in  the  qualities  of 
these  superior  spirits,  and  be  prepared  to  appreciate 
them,  and  follow  in  their  steps — these  are  purposes, 
requiring  institutions  of  education  placed  above  de- 

* London  Review,  April,  1835. 

77 


78  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


pendence  on  the  immediate  pleasure  of  that  very  mul- 
titude whom  they  are  designed  to  elevate.  These  are 
the  ends  for  which  endowed  universities  are  desirable ; 
they  are  those  which  all  endowed  universities  profess 
to  aim  at ; and  great  is  their  disgrace,  if,  having  under- 
taken this  task,  and  claiming  credit  for  fulfilling  it, 
they  leave  it  unfulfilled. 

In  what  manner  are  these  purposes — the  greatest 
which  any  human  institution  can  propose  to  itself — 
purposes  which  the  English  universities  must  be  fit 
for,  or  they  are  fit  for  nothing — performed  by  those 
universities  ? Circumspice. 

In  the  intellectual  pursuits  which  form  great  minds, 
this  country  was  formerly  pre-eminent.  England  once 
stood  at  the  head  of  European  philosophy.  Where 
stands  she  now  ? Consult  the  general  opinion  of 
Europe.  The  celebrity  of  England,  in  the  present 
day,  rests  upon  her  docks,  her  canals,  her  railroads. 
In  intellect  she  is  distinguished  only  for  a kind  of  sober 
good  sense,  free  from  extravagance,  but  also  void  of 
lofty  aspirations  ; and  for  doing  all  those  things  which 
are  best  done  where  man  most  resembles  a machine, 
with  the  precision  of  a machine.  Valuable  qualities, 
doubtless  ; but  not  precisely  those  by  which  mankind 
raise  themselves  to  the  perfection  of  their  nature,  or 
achieve  greater  and  greater  conquests  over  the  difficul- 
ties which  encumber  their  social  arrangements.  Ask 
any  reflecting  person  in  France  or  Germany  his  opinion 
of  England  ; whatever  may  be  his  own  tenets — how- 
ever friendly  his  disposition  to  us — whatever  his  ad- 
miration of  our  institutions,  and  of  some  parts  of  our 
national  character ; however  alive  to  the  faults  and 
errors  of  his  own  countrymen,  the  feature  which 
always  strikes  him  in  the  English  mind  is  the  absence 
of  enlarged  and  commanding  views.  Every  question 
he  finds  discussed  and  decided  on  its  own  basis,  how- 
ever narrow,  without  any  light  thrown  upon  it  from 
principles  more  extensive  than  itself ; and  no  question 
discussed  at  all,  unless  parliament,  or  some  constituted 
authority,  is  to  be  moved  to-morrow  or  the  day  after 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  79 


to  put  it  to  the  vote.  Instead  of  the  ardour  of  research, 
the  eagerness  for  large  and  comprehensive  inquiry,  of 
the  educated  part  of  the  French  and  German  youth, 
what  find  we  ? Out  of  the  narrow  bounds  of  mathe- 
matical and  physical  science,  not  a vestige  of  a read- 
ing and  thinking  public  engaged  in  the  investigation 
of  truth  as  truth,  in  the  prosecution  of  thought  for 
the  sake  of  thought.  Among  few  except  sectarian  re- 
ligionists— and  what  they  are  we  all  know — is  there 
any  interest  in  the  great  problem  of  man’s  nature  and 
life  : among  still  fewer  is  there  any  curiosity  respecting 
the  nature  and  principles  of  human  society,  the  history 
or  the  philosophy  of  civilization  ; nor  any  belief  that, 
from  such  inquiries,  a single  important  practical  con- 
sequence can  follow.  Guizot,  the  greatest  admirer  of 
England  among  the  Continental  philosophers,  never- 
theless remarks  that,  in  England,  even  great  events  do 
not,  as  they  do  everywhere  else,  inspire  great  ideas. 
Things,  in  England,  are  greater  than  the  men  who 
accomplish  them. 

But  perhaps  this  degeneracy  is  the  effect  of  some 
cause  over  which  the  universities  had  no  control,  and 
against  which  they  have  been  ineffectually  struggling. 
If  so,  those  bodies  are  wonderfully  patient  of  being 
baffled.  Not  a word  of  complaint  escapes  any  of  their 
leading  dignitaries — not  a hint  that  their  highest 
endeavours  are  thwarted,  their  best  labours  thrown 
away ; not  a symptom  of  dissatisfaction  with  the  in- 
tellectual state  of  the  national  mind,  save  when  it  dis- 
cards the  boroughmongers,  lacks  zeal  for  the  Church, 
or  calls  for  the  admission  of  Dissenters  within  their 
precincts.  On  the  contrary,  perpetual  boasting  how 
perfectly  they  succeed  in  accomplishing  all  that  they 
attempt ; endless  celebrations  of  the  country’s  glory 
and  happiness  in  possessing  a youth  so  taught,  so 
mindful  of  what  they  are  taught.  When  any  one 
presumes  to  doubt  whether  the  universities  are  all 
that  universities  should  be,  he  is  not  told  that  they  do 
their  best,  but  that  the  tendencies  of  the  age  are  too 
strong  for  them  ; no— he  is,  with  an  air  of  triumph, 


80  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 

referred  to  their  fruits,  and  asked  whether  an  education 
which  has  made  English  gentlemen  what  we  see  them, 
can  be  other  than  a good  education  ? All  is  right  so 
long  as  no  one  speaks  of  taking  away  their  endow- 
ments, or  encroaching  upon  their  monopoly.*  While 
they  are  thus  eulogizing  their  own  efforts,  and  the 
results  of  their  efforts  ; philosophy — not  any  particular 
school  of  philosophy,  but  philosophy  altogether — 
speculation  of  any  comprehensive  kind,  and  upon  any 
deep  or  extensive  subject — has  been  falling  more  and 
more  into  distastefulness  and  disrepute  among  the 
educated  classes  of  England.  Have  those  classes 
meanwhile  learned  to  slight  and  despise  these  autho- 
rized teachers  of  philosophy,  or  ceased  to  frequent 
their  schools?  Far  from  it.  The  universities  then 
may  flourish,  though  the  pursuits  which  are  the  end 
and  justification  of  the  existence  of  universities  decay. 
The  teacher  thrives  and  is  in  honour,  while  that  which 
he  affects  to  teach  vanishes  from  among  mankind. 

If  the  above  reflections  were  to  occur,  as  they  well 
might,  to  an  intelligent  foreigner,  deeply  interested  in 
the  condition  and  prospects  of  English  intellect,  we 
may  imagine  with  what  avidity  he  would  seize  upon 
the  publication  before  us.  It  is  a discourse  on  the 
studies  of  Cambridge,  by  a Cambridge  Professor, 
delivered  to  a Cambridge  audience,  and  published  at 
their  request.  It  contains  the  opinion  of  one  of  the 
most  liberal  members  of  the  University  on  the  studies 
of  the  place  ; or,  as  we  should  rather  say,  on  the 
studies  which  the  place  recommends,  and  which  some 
few  of  its  pupils  actually  prosecute.  Mr.  Sedgwick  is 
not  a mere  pedant  of  a college,  who  defends  the  system 
because  he  has  been  formed  by  the  system,  and  has 
never  learned  to  see  anything  but  in  the  light  in  which 
the  system  showed  it  to  him.  Though  an  intemperate, 
he  is  not  a bigoted,  partisan  of  the  body  to  which  he 
belongs  ; he  can  see  faults  as  well  as  excellences,  not 

* Written  before  the  advent  of  the  present  comparatively 
enlightened  body  of  University  Reformers. 


PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK'S  DISCOUESE  81 


merely  in  their  mode  of  teaching,  but  in  some  parts  of 
what  they  teach.  His  intellectual  pretensions,  too, 
are  high.  Not  of  him  can  it  be  said  that  he  aspires 
not  to  philosophy  ; he  writes  in  the  character  of  one 
to  whom  its  loftiest  eminences  are  familiar.  Curiosity, 
therefore,  cannot  but  be  somewhat  excited  to  know 
what  he  finds  to  say  respecting  the  Cambridge  scheme 
of  education,  and  what  notion  may  be  formed  of  the 
place  from  the  qualities  he  exhibits  in  himself,  one  of 
its  favourable  specimens. 

Whatever  be  the  value  of  Professor  Sedgwick’s  Dis- 
course in  the  former  of  these  two  points  of  view,  in 
the  latter  we  have  found  it,  on  examination,  to  be  a 
document  of  considerable  importance.  The  Professor 
gives  his  opinion  (for  the  benefit  chiefly,  he  says,  of 
the  younger  members  of  the  University,  but  in  a 
manner,  he  hopes,  “ not  altogether  unfitting  to  other 
ears  ”)  on  the  value  of  several  great  branches  of  intel- 
lectual culture,  and  on  the  spirit  in  which  they  should 
be  pursued.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  he  proclaims  in 
his  preface  another  and  a still  more  ambitious  purpose 
— the  destruction  of  what  has  been  termed  the  Utili- 
tarian theory  of  morals.  “ He  has  attacked  the  utili- 
tarian theory  of  morals,  not  merely  because  he  thinks 
it  founded  on  false  reasoning,  but  because  he  also 
believes  that  it  produces  a degrading  effect  on  the 
temper  and  conduct  of  those  who  adopt  it.” 

This  is  promising  great  things : to  refute  a theory 
of  morals ; and  to  trace  its  influence  ont  he  character 
and  actions  of  those  who  embrace  it.  A better  test 
of  capacity  for  philosophy  could  not  be  desired.  We 
shall  see  how  Professor  Sedgwick  acquits  himself  of 
his  two-fold  task,  and  what  were  his  qualifications  for 
undertaking  it. 

From  an  author’s  mode  of  introducing  his  subject, 
and  laying  the  outlines  of  it  before  the  reader,  some 
estimate  may  generally  be  formed  of  his  capacity  for 
discussing  it.  In  this  respect,  the  indications  afforded 
by  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  commencement  are  not  favourable. 
Before  giving  his  opinion  of  the  studies  of  the  Univer- 

6 


82  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


sity,  he  had  to  tell  us  what  those  studies  are.  They 
are,  first,  mathematical  and  physical  science  ; secondly, 
the  classical  languages  and  literature  ; thirdly  (if  some 
small  matter  of  Locke  and  Paley  deserve  so  grand  a 
denomination),  mental  and  moral  science.  For  Mr. 
Sedgwick’s  purpose,  this  simple  mode  of  designating 
these  studies  would  have  been  sufficiently  precise  ; but 
if  he  was  determined  to  hit  off  their  metaphysical 
characteristics,  it  should  not  have  been  in  the  following 
style  : — 

“The  studies  of  this  place,  as  far  as  they  relate  to  mere 
human  learning,  divide  themselves  into  three  branches  : First, 
the  study  of  the  laws  of  nature,  comprehending  all  parts 
of  inductive  philosophy.  Secondly,  the  study  of  ancient 
literature,  or,  in  other  words,  of  those  authentic  records 
which  convey  to  us  an  account  of  the  feelings,  the  sentiments, 
and  the  actions  of  men  prominent  in  the  history  of  the  most 
famous  empires  of  the  ancient  world  : in  these  works  we  seek 
for  examples  and  maxims  of  prudence  and  models  of  taste. 
Thirdly,  the  study  of  ourselves,  considered  as  individuals  and 
as  social  beings  : under  this  head  are  included  ethics  and 
metaphysics,  moral  and  political  philosophy,  and  some  other 
kindred  subjects  of  great  complexity,  hardly  touched  on  in 
our  academic  system,  and  to  be  followed  out  in  the  more 
mature  labours  of  after  life.,> — p.  10. 

How  many  errors  in  expression  and  classification  in 
-one  short  passage  1 The  “ study  of  the  laws  of  nature” 
is  spoken  of  as  one  thing^Ji  the  study  of  otir selves  ” as 
another.  In  studying  ourselves,  are  we  not  studying 
the  laws  of  ®urf  nature  ? (i  All  parts  of  inductive 
philosophy  ” are  placed  under  one  head ; “ ethics  and 
metaphysics,  moral  and  political  philosophy,”  under 
another.  Are  these  no  part  of  inductive  philosophy  ? 
Of  what  philosophy,  then,  are  they  a part  ? Is  not  all 
philosophy,  which  is  founded  upon  experience  and 
observation,  inductive  ?*  What,  again,  can  Mr.  Sedg- 

* It  is  just  to  Mr.  Sedgwick  to  subjoin  the  following 
passage  from  the  Preface  to  a later  edition  of  his  Discourse : — 

“ For  many  years  it  has  been  the  habit  of  English  writers, 
more  especially  those  who  have  been  trained  at  Cambridge, 
to  apply  the  term  philosophy  only  to  those  branches  of  exact 
science  that  are  designated  on  the  Continent  by  the  name  of 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  88 


wick  mean  by  calling  “ ethics  ” one  thing  and  “ moral 
philosophy”  another?  Moral  philosophy  must  be 
either  ethics  or  a branch  of  metaphysics — either  the 
knowledge  of  our  duty,  or  the  theory  of  the  feelings 
with  which  we  regard  our  duty.  What  a loose  descrip- 
tion, too,  of  ancient  literature — where  no  description 
at  all  was  required.  The  writings  of  the  ancients  are 
spoken  of  as  if  there  were  nothing  in  them  but  the 
biographies  of  eminent  statesmen. 

This  want  of  power  to  express  accurately  what  is 
conceived,  almost  unerringly  denotes  inaccuracy  in  the 
conception  itself : such  verbal  criticism,  therefore,  is 
far  from  unimportant.  But  the  topics  of  a graver 
kind,  which  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  Discourse  suggests,  are 
fully  sufficient  to  occupy  us,  and  to  them  we  shall 
henceforth  confine  ourselves. 

The  Professor’s  survey  of  the  studies  of  the  Uni- 
versity commences  with  a the  study  of  the  laws  of 
nature,”  or,  to  speak  a more  correct  language,  the  laws 
of  the  material  universe.  Here,  to  a mind  stored  with 
the  results  of  comprehensive  thought,  there  lay  open 
a boundless  field  of  remark,  of  the  kind  most  useful  to 
the  young  students  of  the  University.  At  the  stage  in 
education  which  they  are  supposed  to  have  reached,  the 
time  was  come  for  disengaging  their  minds  from  the 
microscopic  contemplation  of  the  details  of  the  various 
sciences,  and  elevating  them  to  the  idea  of  Science  as 
a whole — to  the  idea  of  human  culture  as  a whole — of 
the  place  which  those  various  sciences  occupy  in  the 
former,  and  the  functions  which  they  perform  in  the 
latter.  Though  an  actual  analysis  would  have  been 
impossible,  there  was  room  to  present,  in  a rapid 
sketch,  the  results  of  an  analysis,  of  the  methods  of 
the  various  physical  sciences — the  processes  by  which 
they  severally  arrive  at  truth  : the  peculiar  logic  of 

physics.  As  this  local  use  of  a general  term  may  lead  to  a 
misapprehension  of  the  writer’s  intentions,  it  would  be  well 
if,  in  the  following  pages,  the  words  inductive  philosophy , and 
other  like  phrases,  were  accompanied  with  some  word  limiting 
their  application  to  the  exact  physical  sciences.” 

6—2 


84  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


each  science,  and  the  light  thrown  thereby  upon 
universal  logic : the  various  kinds  and  degrees  of 
evidence  upon  which  the  truths  of  those  sciences  rest ; 
how  to  estimate  them  ; how  to  adapt  our  modes  of 
investigation  to  them  : how  far  the  habits  of  estimating 
evidence,  which  these  sciences  engender,  are  applicable 
to  other  subjects,  and  to  evidence  of  another  kind  ; 
how  far  inapplicable.  Hence  the  transition  was  easy 
to  the  more  extensive  inquiry,  what  these  physical 
studies  are  capable  of  doing  for  the  mind  ; which  of 
the  habits  and  powers  that  constitute  a line  intellect 
those  pursuits  tend  to  cultivate  ; what  are  those  which 
they  do  not  cultivate,  those  even  (for  such  there  are) 
which  they  tend  to  impede ; by  what  other  studies  and 
intellectual  exercises,  by  what  general  reflections,  or 
course  of  reading  or  meditation,  those  deficiencies  may 
be  supplied.  The  Professor  might  thus  have  shown 
(what  it  is  usual  only  to  declaim  about)  how  highly 
a familiarity  with  mathematics,  with  dynamics,  with 
even  experimental  physics  and  natural  history,  con- 
duces both  to  strength  and  soundness  of  understanding ; 
and  yet  how  possible  it  is  to  be  master  of  all  these 
sciences,  and  to  be  unable  to  put  two  ideas  together 
with  a useful  result,  on  any  other  topic.  The  youth  of 
the  university  might  have  been  taught  to  set  a just 
value  on  these  attainments,  yet  to  see  in  them,  as 
branches  of  general  education,  what  they  really  are — 
the  early  stages  in  the  formation  of  a superior  mind  ; 
the  instruments  of  a higher  culture.  Nor  would  it 
have  been  out  of  place  in  such  a discourse,  though 
perhaps  not  peculiarly  appropriate  to  this  part  of  it,  to 
have  added  a few  considerations  on  the  tendency  of 
scientific  pursuits  in  general ; the  influence  of  habits 
of  analysis  and  abstraction  upon  the  character : — how, 
without  those  habits,  the  mind  is  the  slave  of  its  own 
accidental  associations,  the  dupe  of  every  superficial 
appearance,  and  fit  only  to  receive  its  opinions  from 
authority  : — on  the  other  hand,  how  their  exclusive 
cultivation,  while  it  strengthens  the  associations  which 
connect  means  with  ends,  effects  with  causes,  tends  to 


PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOUESE  85 


weaken  many  of  those  upon  which  our  enjoyments  and 
our  social  feelings  depend;  and  by  accustoming  the 
mind  to  consider,  in  objects,  chiefly  the  properties  on 
account  of  which  we  refer  them  to  classes  and  give 
them  general  names,  leaves  our  conceptions  of  them  as 
individuals,  lame  and  meagre  : — how,  therefore,  the 
corrective  and  antagonist  principle  to  the  pursuits 
which  deal  with  objects  only  in  the  abstract,  is  to  be 
sought  in  those  which  deal  with  them  altogether  in  the 
concrete,  clothed  in  properties  and  circumstances  ; real 
life  in  its  most  varied  forms,  poetry  and  art  in  all  their 
branches. 

These,  and  many  kindred  topics,  a true  philosopher, 
standing  in  the  place  of  Professor  Sedgwick,  would, 
as  far  as  space  permitted,  have  illustrated  and  insisted 
on.  But  the  Professor’s  resources  supplied  him  only 
with  a few  trite  commonplaces,  on  the  high  privilege  of 
comprehending  the  mysteries  of  the  natural  world ; 
the  value  of  studies  which  give  a habit  of  abstraction, 
and  a “ power  of  concentration”;  the  use  of  scientific 
pursuits  in  saving  us  from  languor  and  vacuity ; with 
other  truths  of  that  small  calibre.  To  these  he  adds, 
that  “ the  study  of  the  higher  sciences  is  well  suited 
to  keep  down  a spirit  of  arrogance  and  intellectual 
pride,”  by  convincing  us  of  “ the  narrow  limitation  of 
our  faculties  ”;  and  upon  this  peg  he  appends  a disser- 
tation on  the  evidences  of  design  in  the  universe — a 
subject  on  which  much  originality  was  not  to  be  hoped 
for,  and  the  nature  of  which  may  be  allowed  to  protect 
feebleness  from  any  severity  of  comment. 

The  Professor’s  next  topic  is  the  classical  languages 
and  literature.  And  here  he  begins  by  wondering.  It 
is  a common  propensity  of  writers  on  natural  theology 
to  erect  everything  into  a wonder.  They  cannot  con- 
sider the  greatness  and  wisdom  of  God,  once  for  all, 
as  proved,  but  think  themselves  bound  to  be  finding 
fresh  arguments  for  it  in  every  chip  or  stone  ; and 
they  think  nothing  a proof  of  greatness  unless  they 
can  wonder  at  it ; and  to  most  minds  a wonder  ex- 
plained is  a wonder  no  longer.  Hence  a sort  of  vague 


86  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


feeling,  as  if,  to  their  conceptions,  God  would  not  be 
so  great  if  He  had  made  us  capable  of  understanding 
more  of  the  laws  of  His  universe  ; and  hence  a re- 
luctance to  admit  even  the  most  obvious  explanation, 
lest  it  should  destroy  the  wonder. 

The  subject  of  Professor  Sedgwick’s  wonder  is  a very 
simple  thing — the  manner  in  which  a child  acquires  a 
language. 

“ I may  recall  to  your  minds,”  says  he,  “ the  wonderful  ease 
with  which  a child  comprehends  the  conventional  signs  of 
thought  formed  between  man  and  man — not  only  learns  the 
meaning  of  words  descriptive  of  visible  things  ; but  under- 
stands, by  a kind  of  rational  instinct,  the  meaning  of  abstract 
terms,  without  ever  thinking  of  the  faculty  by  which  he 
comes  to  separate  them  from  the  names  of  mere  objects  of 
sense.  The  readiness  with  which  a child  acquires  a language 
may  well  be  called  a rational  instinct : for  during  the  time 
that  his  knowledge  is  built  up,  and  that  he  learns  to  handle 
the  implements  of  thought,  he  knows  no  more  of  what  passes 
within  himself,  than  he  does  of  the  structure  of  the  eye,  or  of 
the  properties  of  light,  while  he  attends  to  the  impressions 
on  his  visual  sense,  and  gives  to  each  impression  its  appro- 
priate name.” — p.  33. 

If  whatever  we  do  without  understanding  the 
machinery  by  which  we  do  it,  be  done  by  a rational 
instinct,  we  learn  to  dance  by  instinct : since  few  of 
the  dancing-master’s  pupils  have  ever  heard  of  any 
one  of  the  muscles  which  his  instructions  and  their 
own  sedulous  practice  give  them  the  power  to  use. 
Do  we  grow  wheat  by  “ a rational  instinct,”  because 
we  know  not  how  the  seed  germinates  in  the  ground  ? 
We  know  by  experience,  not  by  instinct,  that  it  does 
germinate,  and  on  that  assurance  we  sow  it.  A child 
learns  a language  by  the  ordinary  laws  of  association ; 
by  hearing  the  word  spoken,  on  the  various  occasions 
on  which  the  meaning  denoted  by  it  has  to  be  con- 
veyed. This  mode  of  acquisition  is  better  adapted 
for  giving  a loose  and  vague,  than  a precise,  conception 
of  the  meaning  of  an  abstract  term ; accordingly, 
most  people’s  conceptions  of  the  meaning  of  many 
abstract  terms  in  common  use  remain  always  loose 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  87 


and  vague.  The  rapidity  with  which  children  learn  a 
language  is  not  more  wonderful  than  the  rapidity 
with  which  they  learn  so  much  else  at  an  early  age. 
It  is  a common  remark,  that  we  gain  more  knowledge 
in  the  first  few  years  of  life,  without  labour,  than  we 
ever  after  acquire  by  the  hardest  toil,  in  double  the 
time.  There  are  many  causes  to  account  for  this ; 
among  which  it  is  sufficient  to  specify,  that  much  of 
the  knowledge  we  then  acquire  concerns  our  most 
pressing  wants,  and  that  our  attention  to  outward 
impressions  is  not  yet  deadened  by  familiarity,  nor 
distracted,  as  in  grown  persons,  by  a previously  ac- 
cumulated stock  of  inward  feelings  and  ideas. 

Against  the  general  tendency  of  the  Professor’s 
remarks  on  the  cultivation  of  the  ancient  languages, 
there  is  little  to  be  said.  We  think  with  him,  that 
“ our  fathers  have  done  well  in  making  classical  studies 
an  early  and  prominent  part  of  liberal  education” 
(p.  84).  We  fully  coincide  in  his  opinion,  that 
“ the  philosophical  and  ethical  works  of  the  ancients 
deserve  a much  larger  portion  of  our  time  than  we  ” 
(meaning  Cambridge)  “ have  hitherto  bestowed  on 
them  ” (p.  89).  We  commend  the  liberality  (for,  in 
a professor  of  an  English  University,  the  liberality 
which  admits  the  smallest  fault  in  the  university 
system  of  tuition  deserves  to  be  accounted  extra- 
ordinary) of  the  following  remarks  : — 

“ It  is  notorious,  that  during  many  past  years,  while  verbal 
criticism  has  been  pursued  with  so  much  ardour,  the  works  to 
which  I now  allude  (coming  home,  as  they  do,  to  the  business 
of  life  ; and  pregnant,  as  they  are,  with  knowledge  well  fitted 
to  fortify  the  reasoning  powers)  have,  by  the  greater  number 
of  us,  hardly  been  thought  of ; and  have  in  no  instance  been 
made  prominent  subjects  of  academic  training.” — p.  39. 

“ I think  it  incontestably  true,  that  for  the  last  fifty  years 
our  classical  studies  (with  much  to  demand  our  undivided 
praise)  have  been  too  critical  and  formal : and  that  we  have 
sometimes  been  taught,  while  straining  after  an  accuracy 
beyond  our  reach,  to  value  the  husk  more  than  the  fruit  of 
ancient  learning  : and  if  of  late  years  our  younger  members 
have  sometimes  written  prose  Greek  almost  with  the  purity 
of  Xenophon,  or  composed  iambics  in  the  finished  diction  of 


88  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


the  Attic  poets,  we  may  well  doubt  whether  time  suffices  for 
such  perfection — whether  the  imagination  and  the  taste  might 
not  be  more  wisely  cultivated  than  by  a long  sacrifice  to  what, 
after  all,  ends  but  in  verbal  imitations. — In  short,  whether 
such  acquisitions,  however  beautiful  in  themselves,  are  not 
gained  at  the  expense  of  something  better.  This  at  least  is 
true,  that  he  who  forgets  that  language  is  but  the  sign  and 
vehicle  of  thought,  and,  while  studying  the  word,  knows 
little  of  the  sentiment — who  learns  the  measure,  the  garb,  and 
fashion  of  ancient  song,  without  looking  to  its  living  soul  or 
Teeling  its  inspiration — is  not  one  jot  better  than  a traveller 
in  classic  land,  who  sees  its  crumbling  temples,  and  numbers, 
with  arithmetical  precision,  their  steps  and  pillars,  but  thinks 
not  of  their  beauty,  their  design,  or  the  living  sculptures  on 
their  walls — or  who  counts  the  stones  in  the  Appian  Way 
instead  of  gazing  on  the  monuments  of  the  4 eternal  city.’  ” — 
pp.  37-38. 

The  illustration  which  closes  the  above  passage 
(though,  as  is  often  the  case  with  illustrations,  it  does 
not  illustrate)  is  rather  pretty  : a circumstance  which 
we  should  be  sorry  not  to  notice,  as,  amid  much 
straining,  and  many  elaborate  flights  of  imagination, 
we  have  not  met  with  any  other  instance  in  which 
the  Professor  makes  so  near  an  approach  to  actual 
eloquence. 

We  have  said  that  we  go  all  lengths  with  our 
author  in  claiming  for  classical  literature  a place  in 
education,  at  least  equal  to  that  commonly  assigned 
to  it.  But  though  we  think  his  opinion  right,  we 
think  most  of  his  reasons  wrong.  As,  for  example, 
the  following : — 

“ With  individuals  as  with  nations,  the  powers  of  imagina- 
tion reach  their  maturity  sooner  than  the  powers  of  reason  ; 
and  this  is  another  proof  that  the  severer  investigations  of 
science  ought  to  be  preceded  by  the  study  of  languages  ; and 
especially  of  those  great  works  of  imagination  which  have 
become  a pattern  for  the  literature  of  every  civilized  tongue.” 
— p.  34. 

This  dictum  respecting  Imagination  and  Reason  is 
only  not  a truism,  because  it  is,  as  Coleridge  would 
say,  a falsism.  Does  the  Professor  mean  that  “ any 
great  work  of  imagination  ” — the  Paradise  Lost , for 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  89 


instance — could  have  been  produced  at  an  earlier 
age,  or  by  a less  matured  or  less  accomplished  mind, 
than  the  Mecanique  Celeste  ? Does  he  mean  that 
a learner  can  appreciate  iEschylus  or  Sophocles  before 
he  is  old  enough  to  understand  Euclid  or  Lacroix  ? 
In  nations  again,  the  assertion,  that  imagination,  in 
any  but  the  vulgarest  sense  of  the  word,  attains 
maturity  sooner  than  reason,  is  so  far  from  being 
correct,  that  throughout  all  history  the  two  have 
invariably  flourished  together  ; have,  and  necessarily 
must.  Does  Mr.  Sedgwick  think  that  any  great 
work  of  imagination  ever  was,  or  can  be,  produced, 
without  great  powers  of  reason  ? Be  the  country 
Greece  or  Rome,  Italy,  France,  or  England,  the  age 
of  her  greatest  eminence  in  poetry  and  the  fine  arts 
has  been  that  of  her  greatest  statesmen,  generals, 
orators,  historians,  navigators — in  one  word,  thinkers, 
in  every  department  of  active  life ; not,  indeed,  of  her 
greatest  philosophers,  but  only  because  Philosophy  is 
the  tardiest  product  of  Reason  itself.* 

Of  the  true  reasons,  and  there  are  most  substantial 
and  cogent  ones,  for  assigning  to  classical  studies  a 
high  place  in  general  education,  we  find  not  a word 
in  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  tract ; but,  instead  of  them,  much 
harping  on  the  value  of  the  writings  of  antiquity  as 
“ patterns  ” and  “ models.”  This  is  lauding  the  abuse 
of  classical  knowledge  as  the  use  ; and  is  a very  bad 
lesson  to  “the  younger  members”  of  the  University. 
The  study  of  the  ancient  writers  has  been  of  unspeak- 
able benefit  to  the  moderns ; from  which  benefit,  the 
attempts  at  direct  imitation  of  those  writers  have 

* In  the  earlier  stages  of  a nation’s  culture,  the  place  of 
Philosophy  is  always  pre-occupied  by  an  established  religion  : 
all  the  more  interesting  questions  to  which  philosophy 
addresses  itself,  find  a solution  satisfactory  to  the  then  state 
of  human  intellect,  ready  provided  by  the  received  creed. 
The  old  religion  must  have  lost  its  hold  on  the  more  cultivated 
minds,  before  philosophy  is  applied  to  for  a solution  of  the 
same  questions.  With  the  decline  of  Polytheism  came  the 
Greek  philosophy ; with  the  decline  of  Catholicism,  the 
modern. 


90  PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOUESE 


been  no  trifling  drawback.  The  necessary  effect  of 
imitating  “models”  is,  to  set  manner  above  matter. 
The  imitation  of  the  classics  has  perverted  the  whole 
taste  of  modern  Europe  on  the  subject  of  composi- 
tion : it  has  made  style  a subject  of  cultivation  and 
of  praise,  independently  of  ideas  ; whereas,  by  the 
ancients,  style  was  never  thought  of  but  in  complete 
subordination  to  matter.  The  ancients  (in  the  good 
times  of  their  literature)  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  a coat  in  the  abstract,  as  of  style  in  the  abstract : 
the  merit  of  a style,  in  their  eyes,  was,  that  it  exactly 
fitted  the  thought.  Their  first  aim  was,  by  the 
assiduous  study  of  their  subject,  to  secure  to  them- 
selves thoughts  worth  expressing  ; their  next  was,  to 
find  words  which  would  convey  those  thoughts  with 
the  utmost  degree  of  nicety  ; and  only  when  this  was 
made  sure,  did  they  think  of  ornament.  Their  style, 
therefore,  whether  ornamented  or  plain,  grows  out  of 
their  turn  of  thought ; and  may  be  admired,  but  can- 
not be  imitated,  by  anyone  whose  turn  of  thought 
is  different.  The  instruction  which  Professor  Sedgwick 
should  have  given  to  his  pupils,  was  to  follow  no 
models ; to  attempt  no  style,  but  let  their  thoughts 
shape  out  the  style  best  suited  to  them  ; to  resemble 
the  ancients,  not  by  copying  their  manner,  but  by 
understanding  their  own  subject  as  well,  cultivating 
their  faculties  as  highly,  and  taking  as  much  trouble 
with  their  work,  as  the  ancients  did.  All  imitation  of 
an  author’s  style,  except  that  which  arises  from  making 
his  thoughts  our  own,  is  mere  affectation  and  vicious 
mannerism. 

In  discussing  the  value  of  the  ancient  languages, 
Mr.  Sedgwick  touches  upon  the  importance  of  ancient 
history.  On  this  topic,  on  which  so  much,  and  of  the 
most  interesting  kind,  might  have  been  said,  he  delivers 
nothing  but  questionable  commonplaces.  “ History,” 
says  he,  “ is,  to  our  knowledge  of  man  in  his  social 
capacity,  what  physical  experiments  are  to  our  know- 
ledge of  the  laws  of  nature  ” (p.  42).  Common  as 
this  notion  is,  it  is  a strange  one  to  be  held  by  a 


PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOUESE  91 


professor  of  physical  science ; for  assuredly  no  person 
is  satisfied  with  such  evidence  in  studying  the  laws  of 
the  natural  world,  as  history  affords  with  respect  to 
the  laws  of  political  society.  The  evidence  of  history, 
instead  of  being  analogous  to  that  of  experiment, 
leaves  the  philosophy  of  society  in  exactly  the  state 
in  which  physical  science  was,  before  the  method  of 
experiment  was  introduced.  The  Professor  should 
reflect,  that  we  cannot  make  experiments  in  history. 
We  are  obliged,  therefore,  as  the  ancients  did  in 
physics,  to  content  ourselves  with  such  experiments  as 
we  find  made  to  our  hands  ; and  these  are  so  few,  and 
so  complicated,  that  little  or  nothing  can  be  inferred 
from  them.  There  is  not  a fact  in  history  which  is 
not  susceptible  of  as  many  different  explanations  as 
there  are  possible  theories  of  human  affairs.  Not  only 
is  history  not  the  source  of  political  philosophy,  but 
the  profoundest  political  philosophy  is  requisite  to 
explain  history ; without  it,  all  in  history  which  is 
worth  understanding  remains  mysterious.  Can  Mr. 
Sedgwick  explain  why  the  Greeks,  in  their  brief  career, 
so  far  surpassed  their  cotemporaries,  or  why  the 
Eomans  conquered  the  world  ? Mr.  Sedgwick  mistakes 
the  functions  of  history  in  political  speculation.  History 
is  not  the  foundation,  but  the  verification,  of  the 
social  science ; it  corroborates,  and  often  suggests, 
political  truths,  but  cannot  prove  them.  The  proof  of 
them  is  drawn  from  the  laws  of  human  nature ; 
ascertained  through  the  study  of  ourselves  by  re- 
flection, and  of  mankind  by  actual  intercourse  with 
them.  That  what  we  know  of  former  ages,  like  what 
we  know  of  foreign  nations,  is,  with  all  its  imper- 
fections, of  much  use,  by  correcting  the  narrowness 
incident  to  personal  experience,  is  undeniable  ; but  the 
usefulness  of  history  depends  upon  its  being  kept  in 
the  second  place. 

The  Professor  seems  wholly  unaware  of  the  impor- 
tance of  accuracy,  either  in  thought  or  in  expression. 
“ In  ancient  history,”  says  he  (p.  42),  “ we  can  trace 
the  fortunes  of  mankind  under  almost  every  condition 


92  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


of  political  and  social  life.”  So  far  is  this  from  being 
true,  that  ancient  history  does  not  so  much  as  furnish 
an  example  of  a civilized  people  in  which  the  bulk  of 
the  inhabitants  were  not  slaves.  Again,  “ all  the  suc- 
cessive actions  we  contemplate  are  at  such  a distance 
from  us,  that  we  can  see  their  true  bearings  on  each 
other  undistorted  by  that  mist  of  prejudice  with  which 
every  modern  political  question  is  surrounded.”  We 
appeal  to  all  who  are  conversant  with  the  modern 
writings  on  ancient  history,  whether  even  this  is  true. 
The  most  elaborate  Grecian  history  which  we  possess 
is  impregnated  with  the  anti-Jacobin  spirit  in  every 
line  ; and  the  Quarterly  Review  laboured  as  diligently 
for  many  years  to  vilify  the  Athenian  republic  as  the 
American. 

Thus  far,  the  faults  which  we  have  discovered  in 
Mr.  Sedgwick  are  of  omission  rather  than  of  com- 
mission : or  at  worst,  amount  only  to  this,  that  he 
has  contented  himself  with  repeating  the  trivialities  he 
found  current.  Had  there  been  nothing  but  this  to 
be  said  of  the  remainder  of  the  Discourse,  we  should 
not  have  disturbed  its  peaceful  progress  to  oblivion. 

We  have  now,  however,  arrived  at  the  opening  of 
that  part  of  Professor  Sedgwick’s  Discourse  which  is 
most  laboured,  and  for  the  sake  of  which  all  the  rest 
may  be  surmised  to  have  been  written, — his  strictures 
on  Locke’s  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding , 
and  Paley’s  Principles  of  Moral  Philosophy . These 
works  comprise  what  little  of  ethical  and  metaphysical 
instruction  is  given,  or  professed  to  be  given,  at  Cam- 
bridge. The  remainder  of  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  Discourse 
is  devoted  to  an  attack  upon  them. 

We  assuredly  have  no  thought  of  defending  either 
work  as  a text-book,  still  less  as  the  sole  text-book,  on 
their  respective  subjects,  in  any  school  of  philosophy. 
Of  Paley’s  work,  though  it  possesses  in  a high  degree 
some  minor  merits,  we  think,  on  the  whole,  meanly. 
Of  Locke’s  Essay,  the  beginning  and  foundation  of 
the  modern  analytical  psychology,  we  cannot  speak 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  93 


but  with  the  deepest  reverence  ; whether  we  consider 
the  era  which  it  constitutes  in  philosophy,  the  intrinsic 
value,  even  at  the  present  day,  of  its  thoughts,  or  the 
noble  devotion  to  truth,  the  beautiful  and  touching 
earnestness  and  simplicity,  which  he  not  only  mani- 
fests in  himself,  but  has  the  power  beyond  almost  all 
other  philosophical  writers  of  infusing  into  his  reader. 
His  Essay  should  be  familiar  to  every  student.  But 
no  work,  a hundred  and  fifty  years  old,  can  be  fit  to 
be  the  sole,  or  even  the  principal  work  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  youth  in  a science  like  that  of  Mind.  In  meta- 
physics, every  new  truth  sets  aside  or  modifies  much 
of  what  was  previously  received  as  truth.  Berkeley’s 
refutation  of  the  doctrine  of  abstract  ideas  would  of 
itself  necessitate  a complete  revision  of  the  phrase- 
ology of  the  most  valuable  parts  of  Locke’s  book.  And 
the  important  speculations  originated  by  Hume  and 
improved  by  Brown,  concerning  the  nature  of  our  ex- 
perience, are  acknowledged,  even  by  the  philosophers 
who  do  not  adopt  in  their  full  extent  the  conclusions  of 
those  writers,  to  have  carried  the  analysis  of  our  know- 
ledge and  of  the  process  of  acquiring  it,  so  much  beyond 
the  point  where  Locke  left  it,  as  to  require  that  his 
wrork  should  be  entirely  recast. 

Moreover,  the  book  which  has  changed  the  face  of 
a science,  even  when  not  superseded  in  its  doctrines, 
is  seldom  suitable  for  didactic  purposes.  It  is  adapted 
to  the  state  of  mind,  not  of  those  who  are  ignorant  of 
every  doctrine,  but  of  those  who  are  instructed  in  an 
erroneous  doctrine.  So  far  as  it  is  taken  up  with 
directly  combating  the  errors  which  prevailed  before 
it  was  written,  the  more  completely  it  has  done  its 
work,  the  more  certain  it  is  of  becoming  superfluous, 
not  to  say  unintelligible,  without  a commentary.  And 
even  its  positive  truths  are  defended  against  such 
objections  only  as  were  current  in  its  own  times,  and 
guarded  only  against  such  misunderstandings  as  the 
people  of  those  times  were  likely  to  fall  into.  Questions 
of  morals  and  metaphysics  differ  from  physical  ques- 
tions in  this,  that  their  aspect  changes  with  every 


94  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


change  in  the  human  mind.  At  no  two  periods  is  the 
same  question  embarrassed  by  the  same  difficulties,  or 
the  same  truth  in  need  of  the  same  explanatory  com- 
ment. The  fallacy  which  is  satisfactorily  refuted  in 
one  age,  reappears  in  another,  in  a shape  which  the 
arguments  formerly  used  do  not  precisely  meet ; and 
seems  to  triumph,  until  some  one,  with  weapons  suit- 
able to  the  altered  form  of  the  error,  arises  and  repeats 
its  overthrow. 

These  remarks  are  peculiarly  applicable  to  Locke’s 
Essay.  His  doctrines  were  new,  and  had  to  make 
their  way  : he  therefore  wrote  not  for  learners,  but 
for  the  learned  ; for  men  who  were  trained  in  the 
systems  antecedent  to  his — in  those  of  the  Schoolmen 
or  of  the  Cartesians.  He  said  what  he  thought  neces- 
sary to  establish  his  own  opinions,  and  answered 
the  objections  of  such  objectors  as  the  age  afforded  ; 
but  he  could  not  anticipate  all  the  objections  which 
might  be  made  by  a subsequent  age : least  of  all  could 
he  anticipate  those  which  would  be  made  now,  when 
his  philosophy  has  long  been  the  prevalent  one  ; when 
the  arguments  of  objectors  have  been  rendered  as 
far  as  possible  consistent  with  his  principles,  and  are 
often  such  as  could  not  have  been  thought  of  until  he 
had  cleared  the  ground  by  demolishing  some  received 
opinion,  which  no  one  before  him  had  thought  of 
disputing.* 

* As  an  example,  and  one  which  is  in  point  to  Mr.  Sedg- 
wick’s attack,  let  us  take  Locke’s  refutation  of  innate  ideas. 
The  doctrine  maintained  in  his  time,  and  against  which  his 
arguments  are  directed,  was,  that  there  are  ideas  which  exist 
in  the  mind  antecedently  to  experience.  Of  this  theory  his 
refutation  is  complete,  and  the  error  has  never  again  reared  its 
head.  But  a form  of  the  same  doctrine  has  since  arisen,  some- 
what different  from  the  above,  and  which  could  not  have  been 
thought  of  until  Locke  had  established  the  dependence  of  all 
our  knowledge  upon  experience.  In  this  modem  theory,  it  is 
admitted  that  experience,  or,  in  other  words,  impressions 
received  from  without,  must  precede  the  excitement  of  any 
ideas  in  the  mind ; no  ideas,  therefore,  exist  in  the  mind 
antecedently  to  experience  ; but  there  are  some  ideas  (so  the 
theory  contends)  which,  though  experience  must  precede 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  95 


To  attack  Locke,  therefore,  because  other  argu- 
ments than  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  use  have  be- 
come requisite  to  the  support  of  some  of  his  conclusions, 
is  like  reproaching  the  Evangelists  because  they  did 
not  write  Evidences  of  Christianity.  The  question  is, 
not  what  Locke  has  said,  but  what  would  he  have  said 
if  he  had  heard  all  that  has  since  been  said  against 
him  ? Unreasonable,  however,  as  is  a criticism  on 
Locke  conceived  in  this  spirit,  Mr.  Sedgwick  indulges 
in  another  strain  of  criticism  even  more  unreasonable. 

The  “ greatest  fault,”  he  says,  of  Locke’s  Essay, 
4 ‘is  the  contracted  view  it  takes  of  the  capacities  of 


them,  are  not  likenesses  of  anything  which  we  have  experience 
of,  but  are  only  suggested  or  excited  by  it ; ideas  which  are 
only  so  far  the  effects  of  outward  impressions,  that  they  would 
for  ever  lie  dormant  if  no  outward  impressions  were  ever 
made.  Experience,  in  short,  is  a necessary  condition  of  those 
ideas,  but  not  their  prototype,  or  their  cause.  One  of  these 
ideas,  they  contend,  is,  the  idea  of  substance  or  matter ; which 
is  no  copy  of  any  sensation ; neither,  on  the  other  hand,  should 
we  ever  have  had  this  notion,  if  we  had  never  had  sensations ; 
but  as  soon  as  any  sensation  is  experienced,  we  are  compelled 
by  a law  of  our  nature  to  form  the  idea  of  an  external  some- 
thing (which  we  call  matter),  and  to  refer  the  sensation  to 
this  as  its  exciting  cause.  Such,  it  is  likewise  contended,  are 
the  idea  of  duty,  and  the  moral  judgments  and  feelings.  We 
do  not  bring  with  us  into  the  world,  any  idea  of  a criminal 
act : it  is  only  experience  which  gives  us  that  idea ; but  the 
moment  we  conceive  the  act,  w^e  instantly,  by  the  constitution 
of  our  nature,  judge  it  to  be  wrong,  and  frame  the  idea  of  an 
obligation  to  abstain  from  it. 

This  form  of  the  doctrine  of  innate  principles,  Locke  did 
not  anticipate,  and  has  not  supplied  the  means  of  completely 
refuting.  Mr.  Sedgwick  accordingly  triumphs  over  him,  as 
having  missed  his  mark  by  overlooking  the  “distinction 
between  innate  ideas  and  innate  capacities  ” (p.  48).  If  Locke 
has  not  adverted  to  a distinction  which  probably,  had  never 
been  thought  of  in  his  day,  others  have  ; and  no  one  who  now 
writes  on  the  subject  ever  overlooks  it.  Has  Mr.  Sedgwick 
ever  read  Hartley,  or  Mill?  or  even  Hume,  or  Helvetius? 
Apparently  not ; ne  shows  no  signs  of  having  read  any  writer 
on  the  side  of  the  question  which  he  attacks,  except  Locke 
and  Paley,  whom  he  insists  upon  treating  as  the  representa- 
tives of  all  others  who  adopt  any  of  their  conclusions. 


96  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 

man — allowing  him,  indeed,  the  faculty  of  reflecting, 
and  following  out  trains  of  thought  according  to  the 
rules  of  abstract  reasoning ; but  depriving  him  both  of 
his  powers  of  imagination  and  of  his  moral  sense  ” 
(p.  57).  Several  pages  are  thereupon  employed  in 
celebrating  44  the  imaginative  powers.”  And  a meta- 
physician who  44  discards  these  powers  from  his 
system”  (which,  according  to  Mr.  Sedgwick,  Locke 
does),  is  accused  of  44  shutting  his  eyes  to  the  loftiest 
qualities  of  the  soul  ” (p.  49). 

Has  the  Professor  so  far  forgotten  the  book  which  he 
must  have  read  once,  and  on  which  he  passes  judg- 
ment with  so  much  authority,  as  to  fancy  that  it  claims 
to  be  a treatise  on  all  44  the  capacities  of  man  ”?  Can 
he  write  in  the  manner  we  have  just  quoted  about 
Locke’s  book,  with  the  fact  looking  him  in  the  face  from 
his  own  pages,  that  it  is  entitled  An  Essay  on  the 
Human  Understanding  ? Who  besides  Mr.  Sedgwick 
would  look  for  a treatise  on  the  imagination  under 
such  a title  ? What  place,  what  concern  could  it  have 
had  there  ? 

The  one  object  of  Locke’s  speculations  was  to 
ascertain  the  limits  of  our  knowledge  ; what  questions 
we  may  hope  to  solve,  what  are  beyond  our  reach. 
This  purpose  is  announced  in  the  Preface,  and  mani- 
fested in  every  chapter  of  the  book.  He  declares  that 
he  commenced  his  inquiries  because  44  in  discoursing 
on  a subject  very  remote  from  this,”  it  came  into  his 
thoughts  that  44  before  we  set  ourselves  upon  inquiries 
of  that  nature,  it  was  necessary  to  examine  our  own 
abilities,  and  see  what  objects  our  understandings  were, 
or  were  not,  fitted  to  deal  with  ”*  The  following, 
from  the  first  chapter  of  the  first  book,  are  a few  of 
the  passages  in  which  he  describes  the  scope  of  his 
speculations : — 

44  To  inquire  into  the  original,  certainty,  and  extent  of 
human  knowledge,  together  with  the  grounds  and  degrees  of 
belief,  opinion,  and  assent.”  44  To  consider  the  discerning 


* Preface  to  Locke’s  Essay. 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  97 


faculties  of  man,  as  they  are  employed  about  the  objects 
which  they  have  to  do  with.”  “To  give  an  account  of  the 
ways  whereby  our  understandings  come  to  attain  those 
notions  of  things  we  have,”  and  “ set  down  '*  some  “ measures 
of  the  certainty  of  our  knowledge,  or  the  grounds  of  those 
persuasions  which  are  to  be  found  amongst  men.”  “To 
search  out  the  bounds  between  opinion  and  knowledge,  and 
examine  by  what  measures,  in  things  whereof  we  have  no 
certain  knowledge,  we  ought  to  regulate  our  assent,  and 
moderate  our  persuasions.”  And  “ by  this  inquiry  into  the 
nature  of  the  understanding,”  to  “discover  the  powers 
thereof,  how  far  they  reach,  to  what  things  they  are  in  any 
degree  proportionate,  and  where  they  fail  us  ”;  and  thereby 
to  “prevail  with  the  busy  mind  of  man  to  be  more  cautious, 
in  meddling  with  things  exceeding  its  comprehension,  to  stop 
when  it  is  at  the  utmost  extent  of  its  tether,  and  to  sit  dow  1 
in  a quiet  ignorance  of  those  things  which,  upon  examination* 
are  found  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  our  capacities.” 

And  because  a philosopher,  having  placed  before 
himself  an  undertaking  of  this  magnitude,  and  of  this 
strictly  scientific  character,  and  having  his  mind  full 
of  thoughts  which  were  destined  to  effect  a revolution 
in  the  philosophy  of  the  human  intellect,  does  not  quit 
his  subject  to  panegyrize  the  imagination,  he  is  accused 
of  saying  that  there  is  no  such  thing  ; or  of  saying  that 
it  is  a pernicious  thing ; or  rather  (for  to  this  pitch  of 
ingenuity  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  criticism  reaches)  of  saying 
both  that  there  is  no  such  thing,  and  also  that  it  is  a 
pernicious  thing.  He  “ deprives  man  of  his  powers  of 
imagination”;  he  “ discards  these  powers  from  his 
system”  ; and  at  the  same  time  he  “ speaks  of  those 
powers  only  to  condemn  them”;  he  “ denounces  the 
exercise  of  the  imagination  as  a fraud  upon  the  reason.” 
As  well  might  it  be  asserted,  that  Locke  denies  that 
man  has  a body,  or  condemns  the  exercise  of  the  body* 
because  he  is  not  constantly  proclaiming  what  a beau- 
tiful and  glorious  thing  the  body  is.  Mr.  Sedgwick 
cannot  conceive  the  state  of  mind  of  such  a man  as 
Locke,  who  is  too  entirely  absorbed  in  his  subject  to 
be  able  to  turn  aside  from  it  every  time  that  an  oppor- 
tunity offers  for  a flight  of  rhetoric.  With  the 
imagination  in  its  own  province,  as  a source  of  enjoy- 

7 


98  PBOFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


ment,  and  a means  of  educating  the  feelings,  Locke 
had  nothing  to  do ; nor  was  the  subject  suited  to  the 
character  of  his  mind.  He  was  concerned  with 
Imagination,  only  in  the  province  of  pure  intellect ; 
and  all  he  had  to  do  with  it  there,  was  to  warn  it  off 
the  ground.  This  Mr.  Sedgwick  calls  “ denouncing 
the  exercise  of  the  imagination  as  a fraud  upon  the 
reason,”  and  “ regarding  men  who  appeal  to  the  powers 
of  imagination  in  their  proofs  and  mingle  them  in  their 
exhortations  as  no  better  than  downright  cheats  ” 
(p.  50).  Locke  certainly  says  that  imagination  is  not 
proof.  Does  the  Professor  then  mean — and  by  his 
rhapsody  about  the  imagination  does  he  intend  us  to 
understand — that  imagination  is  proof  ? But  how  can 
we  expect  clearness  of  ideas  on  metaphysical  subjects, 
from  a writer  who  cannot  discriminate  between  the 
Understanding  and  the  Will  ? Locke’s  Essay  is  on 
the  Understanding  ; Mr.  Sedgwick  tells  us,  with  much 
finery  of  language,  that  the  imagination  is  a powerful 
engine  for  acting  on  the  will.  So  is  a cat-o’-nine-tails. 
Is  a cat-o’-nine-tails,  therefore,  one  of  the  sources  of 
human  knowledge  ? “In  trying  circumstances,”  says 
the  Professor,  “the  determination  of  the  will  is  often 
more  by  feeling  than  by  reason  ” (p.  51).  In  all  cir- 
cumstances, trying  or  otherwise,  the  determination  of 
the  will  is  wholly  by  feeling.  Reason  is  not  an  end 
in  itself  : it  teaches  us  to  know  the  right  ends,  and  the 
way  to  them ; but  if  we  desire  those  ends,  this  desire 
is  not  Reason  but  a feeling.  Hence  the  importance 
of  the  question,  how  to  give  to  the  imagination  that 
direction  which  will  exercise  the  most  beneficial  in- 
fluence upon  the  feelings.  But  the  Professor  probably 
meant  that  “in  trying  circumstances,  the  determina- 
tion” not  “ of  the  will,”  but  of  the  understanding,  “is 
often  more  by  feeling  than  by  reason.”  Unhappily  it 
is  ; this  is  the  tendency  in  human  nature,  against 
which  Locke  warns  his  readers  ; and  by  so  warning 
them,  incurs  the  censure  of  Mr.  Sedgwick.* 

* The  word  Imagination  is  currently  taken  in  such  a 
variety  of  senses,  that  there  is  some  difficulty  in  making  use 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  99 


The  other  accusation  which  the  Professor  urges 
against  Locke — that  of  overlooking  uthe  faculties  of 
moral  judgment,”  and  “depriving”  man  of  his  “moral 
sense” — will  best  be  considered  along  with  his  stric- 
tures on  Paley’s  Moral  Philosophy  ; for  against  Paley, 
also,  the  principal  charge  is  that  he  denies  the  moral 
sense. 

It  is  a fact  in  human  nature,  that  we  have  moral 
judgments  and  moral  feelings.  We  judge  certain 
actions  and  dispositions  to  be  right,  others  wrong  : 
this  we  call  approving  and  disapproving  them.  We 
have  also  feelings  of  pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  former  class  of  actions  and  dispositions — feelings 
of  dislike  and  aversion  to  the  latter  ; which  feelings, 
as  everybody  must  be  conscious,  do  not  exactly  re- 
semble any  other  of  our  feelings  of  pain  or  pleasure. 

Such  are  the  phenomena.  Concerning  their  reality 
there  is  no  dispute.  But  there  are  two  theories 
respecting  the  origin  of  these  phenomena,  which  have 
divided  philosophers  from  the  earliest  ages  of  philo- 
sophy. One  is,  that  the  distinction  between  right  and 
wrong  is  an  ultimate  and  inexplicable  fact ; that  we 
perceive  this  distinction,  as  we  perceive  the  distinction 
of  colours,  by  a peculiar  faculty  ; and  that  the  pleasures 
and  pains,  the  desires  and  aversions,  consequent  upon 
this  perception,  are  all  ultimate  facts  in  our  nature  ; 
as  much  so  as  the  pleasures  and  pains,  or  the  desires 
and  aversions,  of  which  sweet  or  bitter  tastes,  pleasing 


of  it  at  all  without  risk  of  being  misunderstood.  In  one  of 
its  acceptations,  Imagination  is  not  the  auxiliary  merely,  but 
the  necessary  instrument  of  Reason — namely,  by  summoning 
and  keeping  before  the  mind  a lively  and  complete  image  of 
the  thing  to  be  reasoned  about.  The  differences  which  exist 
among  human  beings  in  their  capacity  of  doing  this,  and  the 
influence  which  those  differences  exercise  over  the  soundness 
and  comprehensiveness  of  their  thinking  faculties,  are  topics 
well  worthy  of  an  elaborate  discussion.  But  of  this  mode  of 
viewing  the  subject  there  are  no  traces  in  Mr.  Sedgwick’s 
Discourse. 


7—2 


100  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


or  grating  sounds,  are  the  object.  This  is  called  the 
theory  of  the  moral  sense — or  of  moral  instincts— or 
of  eternal  and  immutable  morality — or  of  intuitive 
principles  of  morality — or  by  many  other  names  ; to 
the  differences  between  which,  those  who  adopt  the 
theory  often  attach  great  importance,  but  which,  for 
our  present  purpose,  may  all  be  considered  as  equivalent. 

The  other  theory  is,  that  the  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong,  and  the  feelings  which  attach  themselves  to 
those  ideas,  are  not  ultimate  facts,  but  may  be  ex- 
plained and  accounted  for  ; are  not  the  result  of  any 
peculiar  law  of  our  nature,  but  of  the  same  laws  on 
which  all  our  other  complex  ideas  and  feelings  depend : 
that  the  distinction  between  moral  and  immoral  acts 
is  not  a peculiar  and  inscrutable  property  in  the  acts 
themselves,  which  we  perceive  by  a sense,  as  we 
perceive  colours  by  our  sense  of  sight ; but  flows 
from  the  ordinary  properties  of  those  actions,  for  the 
recognition  of  which  we  need  no  other  faculty  than  our 
intellects  and  our  bodily  senses.  And  the  particular 
property  in  actions,  which  constitutes  them  moral  or 
immoral,  in  the  opinion  of  those  who  hold  this  theory 
(all  of  them,  at  least,  who  need  here  be  noticed),  is  the 
influence  of  those  actions,  and  of  the  dispositions  from 
which  they  emanate,  upon  human  happiness. 

This  theory  is  sometimes  called  the  theory  of 
Utility;  and  is  what  Mr.  Sedgwick  means  by  “the 
utilitarian  theory  of  morals.” 

Maintaining  this  second  theory,  Mr.  Sedgwick  calls 
“ denying  the  existence  of  moral  feelings  ” (p.  32). 
This  is,  in  the  first  place,  misstating  the  question. 
Nobody  denies  the  existence  of  moral  feelings.  The 
feelings  exist,  manifestly  exist,  and  cannot  be  denied. 
The  questions  on  which  there  is  a difference  are — first, 
whether  they  are  simple  or  complex  feelings,  and  if 
complex,  of  what  elementary  feelings  they  are  com- 
posed : which  is  a question  of  metaphysics ; and 
secondly,  what  kind  of  acts  and  dispositions  are  the 
proper  objects  of  those  feelings  ; in  other  words,  what 
is  the  principle  of  morals.  These  questions,  and  more 


PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOUESE  101 


peculiarly  the  last,  the  theory  which  has  been  termed 
utilitarian  professes  to  solve. 

Paley  adopted  this  theory.  Mr.  Sedgwick,  who 
professes  the  other  theory,  treats  Paley,  and  all  who 
take  Paley ’s  side  of  the  question,  with  extreme 
contumely. 

We  shall  show  that  Mr.  Sedgwick  has  no  right  to 
represent  Paley  as  a type  of  the  theory  of  utility  ; 
that  he  has  failed  in  refuting  even  Paley ; and  that  the 
tone  of  high  moral  reprobation  which  he  has  assumed 
towards  all  who  adopt  that  theory  is  altogether  un- 
merited on  their  part,  and  on  his,  from  his  extreme 
ignorance  of  the  subject,  peculiarly  unbecoming. 

Those  who  maintain  that  human  happiness  is  the 
end  and  test  of  morality  are  bound  to  prove  that  the 
principle  is  true  ; but  not  that  Paley  understood  it. 
No  one  is  entitled  to  found  an  argument  against  a 
principle,  upon  the  faults  or  blunders  of  a particular 
writer  who  professed  to  build  his  system  upon  it, 
without  taking  notice  that  the  principle  may  be 
understood  differently,  and  has  in  fact  been  understood 
differently  by  other  writers.  What  would  be  thought 
of  an  assailant  of  Christianity,  who  should  judge  of  its 
truth  or  beneficial  tendency  from  the  views  taken  of  it 
by  the  Jesuits,  or  by  the  Shakers  ? A doctrine  is  not 
judged  at  all  until  it  is  judged  in  its  best  form.  The 
principle  of  utility  may  be  viewed  in  as  many  different 
lights  as  every  other  rule  or  principle  may.  If  it  be 
liable  to  mischievous  misinterpretations,  this  is  true  of 
all  very  general,  and  therefore  of  all  first,  principles. 
Whether  the  ethical  creed  of  a follower  of  utility  will 
lead  him  to  moral  or  immoral  consequences,  depends 
on  what  he  thinks  useful ; — just  as,  with  a partizan  of 
the  opposite  doctrine — that  of  innate  conscience — it 
depends  on  what  he  thinks  his  conscience  enjoins. 
But  either  the  one  theory  or  the  other  must  be  true. 
Instead,  therefore,  of  cavilling  about  the  abuses  and 
perversions  of  either,  real  manliness  would  consist  in 
accepting  the  true,  with  all  its  liabilities  to  abuse  and 


102  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


perversion ; and  then  bending  the  whole  force  of  our 
intellects  to  the  establishment  of  such  secondary  and 
intermediate  maxims,  as  may  be  guides  to  the  bond 
fide  inquirer  in  the  application  of  the  principle,  and 
salutary  checks  to  the  sophist  and  the  dishonest 
casuist. 

There  are  faults  in  Paley’s  conception  of  the  philo- 
sophy of  morals,  both  in  its  foundations  and  in  its 
subsequent  stages,  which  prevent  his  book  from  being 
an  example  of  the  conclusions  justly  deducible  from 
the  doctrine  of  utility,  or  of  the  influences  of  that 
doctrine,  when  properly  understood,  upon  the  intellect 
and  character. 

In  the  first  place,  he  does  not  consider  utility  as 
itself  the  source  of  moral  obligation,  but  as  a mere 
index  to  the  will  of  God,  which  he  regards  as  the 
ultimate  groundwork  of  all  morality,  and  the  origin 
of  its  binding  force.  This  doctrine  (not  that  utility  is 
an  index  to  the  will  of  God,  but  that  it  is  an  index  and 
nothing  else)  we  consider  as  highly  exceptionable ; and 
having  really  many  of  those  bad  effects  on  the  mind, 
erroneously  ascribed  to  the  principle  of  utility. 

The  only  view  of  the  connexion  between  religion 
and  morality  which  does  not  annihilate  the  very  idea 
of  the  latter,  is  that  which  considers  the  Deity  as  not 
making,  but  recognising  and  sanctioning,  moral  obliga- 
tion. In  the  minds  of  most  English  thinkers  flown  to 
the  middle  of  the  last  century,  the  idea  of  duty,  and 
that  of  obedience  to  God,  were  so  indissolubly  united, 
as  to  be  inseparable  even  in  thought : and  when  we 
consider  how  in  those  days  religious  motives  and  ideas 
stood  in  the  front  of  all  speculations,  it  is  not  wonderful 
that  religion  should  have  been  thought  to  constitute 
the  essence  of  all  obligations  to  which  it  annexed  its 
sanction.  To  have  inquired,  Why  am  I bound  to  obey 
God’s  will  ? would,  to  a Christian  of  that  age,  have 
appeared  irreverent.  It  is  a question,  however,  which, 
as  much  as  any  other,  requires  an  answer  from  a 
Christian  philosopher.  “ Because  he  is  my  Maker  ” 
is  no  answer.  Why  should  I obey  my  Maker  ? From 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  103 


gratitude  ? Then  gratitude  is  in  itself  obligatory, 
independently  of  my  Maker’s  will.  From  reverence 
and  love  ? But  why  is  he  a proper  object  of  love  and 
reverence  ? Not  because  he  is  my  Maker.  If  I had 
been  made  by  an  evil  spirit,  for  evil  purposes,  my  love 
and  reverence  (supposing  me  to  be  capable  of  such 
feelings)  would  have  been  due,  not  to  the  evil,  but 
to  the  good  Being.  Is  it  because  he  is  just,  righteous, 
merciful  ? Then  these  attributes  are  in  themselves 
good,  independently  of  his  pleasure.  If  any  person 
has  the  misfortune  to  believe  that  his  Creator  com- 
mands wickedness,  more  respect  is  due  to  him  for 
disobeying  such  imaginary  commands,  than  for  obey- 
ing them.  If  virtue  would  not  be  virtue  unless  the 
Creator  commanded  it — if  it  derive  all  its  obligatory 
force  from  his  will — there  remains  no  ground  for  obey- 
ing him  except  his  power ; no  motive  for  morality 
except  the  selfish  one  of  the  hope  of  heaven,  or  the 
selfish  and  slavish  one  of  the  fear  of  hell. 

Accordingly,  in  strict  consistency  with  this  view  of 
the  nature  of  morality,  Paley  not  only  represents  the 
proposition  that  we  ought  to  do  good  and  not  harm  to 
mankind,  as  a mere  corollary  from  the  proposition  that 
God  wills  their  good,  and  not  their  harm — but  repre- 
sents the  motive  to  virtue,  and  the  motive  which 
constitutes  its  virtue,  as  consisting  solely  in  the  hope 
of  heaven  and  the  fear  of  hell. 

It  does  not,  however,  follow  that  Paley  believed 
mankind  to  have  no  feelings  except  selfish  ones.  He 
doubtless  would  have  admitted  that  they  are  acted 
upon  by  other  motives,  or,  in  the  language  of  Bentham 
and  Helvetius,  that  they  have  other  interests,  than 
merely  self-regarding  ones.  But  he  chose  to  say  that 
actions  done  from  those  other  motives  are  not  virtuous. 
The  happiness  of  mankind,  according  to  him,  was  the 
end  for  which  morality  was  enjoined  ; yet  he  would 
not  admit  anything  to  be  morality,  when  the  happi- 
ness of  mankind,  or  of  any  of  mankind  except  our- 
selves, is  the  inducement  of  it.  He  annexed  an 
arbitrary  meaning  to  the  word  virtue.  How  he  came 


104  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 

to  think  this  arbitrary  meaning  the  right  one  may  be 
a question.  Partly,  perhaps,  by  the  habit  of  thinking 
and  talking  of  morality  under  the  metaphor  of  a law . 
In  the  notion  of  a law,  the  idea  of  the  command  of  a 
superior,  enforced  by  penalties,  is  of  course  the  main 
element. 

If  Paley’s  ethical  system  is  thus  unsound  in  its 
foundations,  the  spirit  which  runs  through  the  details 
is  no  less  exceptionable.  It  is,  indeed,  such  as  to 
prove,  that  neither  the  character  nor  the  objects  of 
the  writer  were  those  of  a philosopher.  There  is  none 
of  the  single-minded  earnestness  for  truth,  whatever 
it  may  be — the  intrepid  defiance  of  prejudice,  the  firm 
resolve  to  look  all  consequences  in  the  face,  which  the 
word  philosopher  supposes,  and  without  which  nothing 
worthy  of  note  was  ever  accomplished  in  moral  or 
political  philosophy.  One  sees  throughout  that  he 
has  a particular  set  of  conclusions  to  come  to,  and 
will  not,  perhaps  cannot,  allow  himself  to  let  in  any 
premises  which  would  interfere  with  them.  His  book 
is  one  of  a class  which  has  since  become  very  numerous, 
and  is  likely  to  become  still  more  so — an  apology  for 
commonplace.  Not  to  lay  a solid  foundation,  and 
erect  an  edifice  over  it  suited  to  the  professed  ends, 
but  to  construct  pillars,  and  insert  them  under  the 
existing  structure,  was  Paley’s  object.  He  took  the 
doctrines  of  practical  morals  which  he  found  current. 
Mankind  were,  about  that  time,  ceasing  to  consider 
mere  use  and  wont,  or  even  the  ordinary  special  plead- 
ing from  texts  of  scripture,  as  sufficient  warrants  for 
these  common  opinions,  and  were  demanding  some- 
thing like  a philosophic  basis  for  them.  This  philo- 
sophic basis,  Paley,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  made 
it  his  endeavour  to  supply.  The  skill  with  which  his 
book  was  adapted  to  satisfy  this  want  of  the  time, 
accounts  for  the  popularity  which  attended  it,  not- 
withstanding the  absence  of  that  generous  and  inspir- 
ing tone,  which  gives  so  much  of  their  usefulness  as  well 
as  of  their  charm  to  the  writings  of  Plato,  and  Locke, 
and  Fenelon,  and  which  mankind  are  accustomed  to 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  105 


pretend  to  admire,  whether  they  really  respond  to  it 
or  not. 

When  an  author  starts  with  such  an  object,  it  is  of 
little  consequence  what  premises  he  sets  out  from.  In 
adopting  the  principle  of  utility,  Paley,  we  have  no 
doubt,  followed  the  convictions  of  his  intellect ; but 
if  he  had  started  from  any  other  principle,  we  have  as 
little  doubt  that  he  would  have  arrived  at  the  very  same 
conclusions.  These  conclusions,  namely,  the  received 
maxims  of  his  time,  were  (it  would  have  been  strange 
if  they  were  not)  accordant  in  many  points  with  those 
which  philosophy  would  have  dictated.  But  had  they 
been  accordant  on  all  points,  that  was  not  the  way  in 
which  a philosopher  would  have  dealt  with  them. 

The  only  deviation  from  commonplace  which  has 
ever  been  made  an  accusation  (for  all  departures  from 
commonplace  are  made  accusations)  against  Paley’s 
moral  system  is  that  of  too  readily  allowing  exceptions 
to  important  rules ; and  this  Mr.  Sedgwick  does  not 
fail  to  lay  hold  of,  and  endeavour,  as  others  have  done 
before  him,  to  fix  it  upon  the  principle  of  utility  as  an 
immoral  consequence.  It  is,  however,  imputable  to 
the  very  same  cause  which  we  have  already  pointed 
out.  Along  with  the  prevailing  maxims,  Paley  bor- 
rowed the  prevailing  laxity  in  their  application.  He 
had  not  only  to  maintain  existing  doctrines,  but  to  save 
the  credit  of  existing  practices  also.  He  found  in  his 
country’s  morality  (especially  its  political  morality), 
modes  of  conduct  universally  prevalent,  and  applauded 
by  all  persons  of  station  and  consideration,  but  which, 
being  acknowledged  violations  of  great  moral  principles, 
could  only  be  defended  as  cases  of  exception,  resting  on 
special  grounds  of  expediency ; and  the  only  expediency 
which  it  was  possible  to  ascribe  to  them  was  political 
expediency — that  is,  conduciveness  to  the  interests  of 
the  ruling  powers.  To  this,  and  not  to  the  tendencies 
of  the  principle  of  utility,  is  to  be  ascribed  the  lax 
morality  taught  by  Paley,  and  justly  objected  to  by 
Mr.  Sedgwick,  on  the  subject  of  lies,  of  subscriptions 
to  articles,  of  the  abuses  of  influence  in  the  British 


106  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


constitution,  and  various  other  topics.  The  principle 
of  utility  leads  to  no  such  conclusions.  Let  us  be  per- 
mitted to  add  that,  if  it  did,  we  should  not  of  late 
years  have  heard  so  much  in  reprobation  of  it  from  all 
manner  of  persons,  and  from  none  more  than  from  the 
sworn  defenders  of  those  very  malpractices. 

When  an  inquirer  knows  beforehand  the  conclusions 
which  he  is  to  come  to,  he  is  not  likely  to  seek  far  for 
grounds  to  rest  them  upon.  Accordingly,  the  considera- 
tions of  expediency  upon  which  Paley  founds  his  moral 
rules,  are  almost  all  of  the  most  obvious  and  vulgar 
kind.  In  estimating  the  consequences  of  actions,  in 
order  to  obtain  a measure  of  their  morality,  there  are 
always  two  sets  of  considerations  involved : the  conse- 
quences to  the  outward  interests  of  the  parties 
concerned  (including  the  agent  himself) ; and  the  con- 
sequences to  the  characters  of  the  same  persons,  and 
to  their  outward  interests,  so  far  as  dependent  on  their 
characters.  In  the  estimation  of  the  first  of  these  two 
classes  of  considerations,  there  is  in  general  not  much 
difficulty,  nor  much  room  for  difference  of  opinion. 
The  actions  which  are  directly  hurtful,  or  directly  use- 
ful, to  the  outward  interests  of  oneself  or  of  other 
people,  are  easily  distinguished,  sufficiently  at  least  for 
the  guidance  of  a private  individual.  The  rights  of 
individuals,  which  other  individuals  ought  to  respect, 
over  external  things,  are  in  general  sufficiently  pointed 
out  by  a few  plain  rules,  and  by  the  laws  of  one’s 
country.  But  it  often  happens  that  an  essential  part 
of  the  morality  or  immorality  of  an  action  or  a rule  of 
action  consists  in  its  influence  upon  the  agent’s  own 
mind : upon  his  susceptibilities  of  pleasure  or  pain, 
upon  the  general  direction  of  his  thoughts,  feelings, 
and  imagination,  or  upon  some  particular  association. 
Many  actions,  moreover,  produce  effects  upon  the 
character  of  other  persons  besides  the  agent.  In  all 
these  cases  there  will  naturally  be  as  much  difference 
in  the  moral  judgments  of  different  persons,  as  there  is 
in  their  views  of  human  nature,  and  of  the  formation 
of  character.  Clear  and  comprehensive  views  of  educa- 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  107 


tion  and  human  culture  must  therefore  precede,  and 
form  the  basis  of,  a philosophy  of  morals ; nor  can  the 
latter  subject  ever  be  understood,  but  in  proportion  as 
the  former  is  so.  For  this,  much  yet  remains  to  be 
done.  Even  the  materials,  though  abundant,  are  not 
complete.  Of  those  which  exist,  a large  proportion 
have  never  yet  found  their  way  into  the  writings  of 
philosophers  ; but  are  to  be  gathered,  on  the  one  hand, 
from  actual  observers  of  mankind ; on  the  other,  from 
those  autobiographers,  and  from  those  poets  or  novelists, 
who  have  spoken  out  unreservedly,  from  their  own 
experience,  any  true  human  feeling.  To  collect  to- 
gether these  materials,  and  to  add  to  them,  will  be  a 
labour  for  successive  generations.  But  Paley,  instead 
of  having  brought  from  the  philosophy  of  education 
and  character  any  new  light  to  illuminate  the  subject 
of  morals,  has  not  even  availed  himself  of  the  lights 
which  had  already  been  thrown  upon  it  from  that 
source.  He,  in  fact,  had  meditated  little  on  this  branch 
of  the  subject,  and  had  no  ideas  in  relation  to  it,  but  the 
commonest  and  most  superficial. 

Thus  much  we  have  been  induced  to  say,  rather 
from  the  importance  of  the  subject,  than  for  the  sake 
of  a just  estimate  of  Paley,  which  is  a matter  of  in- 
ferior consequence ; still  less  for  the  sake  of  repelling 
Mr.  Sedgwick’s  onslaught,  which,  as  we  shall  soon  see, 
might  have  been  more  summarily  disposed  of. 

Mr.  Sedgwick’s  objections  to  the  principle  of  utility 
are  of  two  kinds — first,  that  it  is  not  true ; secondly, 
that  it  is  dangerous,  degrading,  and  so  forth.  What 
he  says  against  its  truth,  when  picked  out  from  a 
hundred  different  places,  and  brought  together,  would 
fill  about  three  pages,  leaving  about  twenty  consisting 
of  attacks  upon  its  tendency.  This  already  looks  ill ; 
for,  after  all,  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  the  principle  is 
the  main  point.  When,  of  a dissertation  on  any  con- 
troverted question,  a small  part  only  is  employed  in 
proving  the  author’s  own  opinion,  a large  part  in 
ascribing  odious  consequences  to  the  opposite  opinion, 


108  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


we  are  apt  to  think  either  that,  on  the  former  point, 
there  was  not  very  much  to  be  said ; or,  if  there  was, 
that  the  author  is  not  very  well  qualified  to  say  it. 
One  thing  is  certain ; that  if  an  opinion  have  ever  such 
mischievous  consequences,  that  cannot  prevent  any 
thinking  person  from  believing  it,  if  the  evidence  is  in 
its  favour.  Unthinking  persons,  indeed,  if  they  are 
very  solemnly  assured  that  an  opinion  has  mischievous 
consequences,  may  be  frightened  from  examining  the 
evidence.  When,  therefore,  we  find  that  this  mode  of 
dealing  with  an  opinion  is  the  favourite  one — is  resorted 
to  in  preference  to  the  other,  and  with  greater  vehem- 
ence, and  at  greater  length — we  conclude  that  it  is 
upon  unthinking  rather  than  upon  thinking  persons 
that  the  author  calculates  upon  making  an  impression; 
or  else,  that  he  himself  is  one  of  the  former  class  of 
persons — that  his  own  judgment  is  determined,  less  by 
evidence  presented  to  his  understanding,  than  by  the 
repugnancy  of  the  opposite  opinion  to  his  partialities 
and  affections ; and  that,  perceiving  clearly  the  opinion 
to  be  one  which  it  would  be  painful  to  him  to  adopt, 
he  has  been  easily  satisfied  with  reasons  for  reject- 
ing it. 

All  that  the  Professor  says  to  disprove  the  principle 
of  utility,  and  to  prove  the  existence  of  a moral  sense, 
is  found  in  the  following  paragraph  : 

“Let  it  not  be  said  that  onr  moral  sentiments  are  super- 
induced by  seeing  and  tracing  the  consequences  of  crime. 
The  assertion  is  not  true.  The  early  sense  of  shame  comes 
before  such  trains  of  thought,  and  is  not,  therefore,  caused  by 
them  ; and  millions,  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  have  grown  up 
as  social  beings  and  moral  agents,  amenable  to  the  laws  of 
God  and  man,  who  never  traced  or  thought  of  tracing  the 
consequences  of  their  actions,  nor  ever  referred  them  to  any 
standard  of  utility.  Nor  let  it  be  said  that  the  moral  sense 
comes  of  mere  teaching — that  right  and  wrong  pass  as  mere 
words,  first  from  the  lips  of  the  mother  to  the  child,  and  then 
from  man  to  man ; and  that  we  grow  up  with  moral  judgments 
gradually  ingrafted  in  us  from  wdthout,  by  the  long-heard 
lessons  of  praise  and  blame,  by  the  experience  of  fitness,  or 
the  sanction  of  the  law.  I repeat  that  the  statement  is  not 
true — that  our  moral  perceptions  show  themselves  not  in  any 


PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOUESE  109 


such  order  as  this.  The  question  is  one  of  feeling  ; and  the 
moral  feelings  are  often  strongest  in  very  early  life,  before 
moral  rules  or  legal  sanctions  have  once  been  thought  of- 
Again,  what  are  we  to  understand  by  teaching?  Teaching 
implies  capacity:  one  can  be  of  no  use  without  the  other- 
A faculty  of  the  soul  may  be  called  forth,  brought  to  light,, 
and  matured  ; but  cannot  be  created,  any  more  than  we  can 
create  a new  particle  of  matter,  or  invent  a new  law  of 
nature.” — pp.  52,  53. 

The  substance  of  the  last  three  sentences  is  repeated 
at  somewhat  greater  length  shortly  after  (pp.  54,  55), 
in  a passage  from  which  we  need  only  quote  the  follow  - 
ing words: — “No  training  (however  greatly  it  may 
change  an  individual  mind)  can  create  a new  faculty, 
any  more  than  it  can  give  a new  organ  of  sense.”  In 
many  other  parts  of  the  Discourse,  the  same  arguments 
are  alluded  to,  but  no  new  ones  are  introduced. 

Let  us,  then,  examine  these  arguments. 

First,  the  Professor  says,  or  seems  to  say,  that  our 
moral  sentiments  cannot  be  generated  by  experience  of 
consequences,  because  a child  feels  the  sense  of  shame 
before  he  has  any  experience  of  consequences  ; and 
likewise  because  millions  of  persons  grow  up,  have 
moral  feelings,  and  live  morally,  “ who  never  traced, 
or  thought  of  tracing,  the  consequences  of  their 
actions,”  but  who  yet,  it  seems,  are  suffered  to  go  at 
large,  which  we  thought  was  not  usually  the  case  with 
persons  who  never  think  of  the  consequences  of  their 
actions.  The  Professor  continues — “ who  never  traced, 

; or  thought  of  tracing,  the  consequences  of  their  actions, 
nor  ever  referred  them  to  any  standard  of  utility.” 

Secondly  ; that  our  moral  feelings  cannot  arise  from 
i teaching,  because  those  feelings  are  often  strongest  in 
very  early  life. 

Thirdly  ; that  our  moral  feelings  cannot  arise  from 
teaching,  because  teaching  can  only  call  forth  a faculty, 
but  cannot  create  one. 

Let  us  first  consider  the  singular  allegation,  that  the 
sense  of  shame  in  a child  precedes  all  experience  of  the 
consequences  of  actions.  Is  it  not  astounding  that  such 
an  assertion  should  be  ventured  upon  by  any  person  of 


110  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


sane  mind  ? At  what  period  in  a child’s  life,  after  it  is 
capable  of  forming  the  idea  of  an  action  at  all,  can 
it  be  without  experience  of  the  consequences  of  ac- 
tions ? As  soon  as  it  has  the  idea  of  one  person 
striking  another,  is  it  not  aware  that  striking  pro- 
duces pain  ? As  soon  as  it  has  the  idea  of  being 
commanded  by  its  parent,  has  it  not  the  notion  that,  by 
not  doing  what  is  commanded,  it  will  excite  the  parent’s 
displeasure  ? A child’s  knowledge  of  the  simple  fact 
(one  of  the  earliest  he  becomes  acquainted  with),  that 
some  acts  produce  pain  and  others  pleasure,  is  called 
by  pompous  names,  “ seeing  and  tracing  the  conse- 
quences of  crime,”  “trains  of  thought,”  “referring 
actions  to  a standard,”  terms  which  imply  continued 
reflection  and  large  abstractions ; and  because  these 
terms  are  absurd  when  used  of  a child  or  an  unedu- 
cated person,  we  are  to  conclude  that  a child  or  an  un- 
educated person  has  no  notion  that  one  thing  is  caused 
by  another.  As  well  might  it  be  said  that  a child  re- 
quires an  instinct  to  tell  him  that  he  has  ten  fingers, 
because  he  knows  it  before  he  has  ever  thought  of  { 
“ making  arithmetical  computations.”  Though  a child 
is  not  a jurist  or  a moral  philosopher  (to  whom  alone 
the  Professor’s  phrases  would  be  properly  applicable),? 
he  has  the  idea  of  himself  hurting  or  offending  some 
one,  or  of  some  one  hurting  or  annoying  him.  These 
are  ideas  which  precede  any  sense  of  shame  in  doing 
wrong  ; and  it  is  out  of  these  elements,  and  not  out  of 
abstractions,  that  the  supporters  of  the  theory  of  utility 
contend  that  the  idea  of  wrong,  and  our  feelings  of  dis- 
approbation of  it,  are  originally  formed.  Mr.  Sedg- 
wick’s argument  resembles  one  we  often  hear,  that  thej 
principle  of  utility  must  be  false,  because  it  supposes* 
morality  to  be  founded  on  the  good  of  society,  an  idea' 
too  complex  for  the  majority  of  mankind,  who  look 
only  to  the  particular  persons  concerned.  Why,  none' 
but  those  who  mingle  in  public  transactions,  or  whose 
example  is  likely  to  have  extensive  influence,  have  any 
occasion  to  look  beyond  the  particular  persons  con- 
cerned. Morality,  for  all  other  people,  consists  in 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  111 


doing  good  and  refraining  from  harm,  to  themselves 
and  to  those  who  immediately  surround  them.  As 
soon  as  a child  has  the  idea  of  voluntarily  producing 
pleasure  or  pain  to  any  one  person,  he  has  an  accurate 
notion  of  utility.  When  he  afterwards  gradually  rises 
to  the  very  complex  idea  of  “ society,”  and  learns  in 
what  manner  his  actions  may  affect  the  interests  of 
other  persons  than  those  who  are  present  to  his  sight, 
his  conceptions  of  utility,  and  of  right  and  wrong 
founded  on  utility,  undergo  a corresponding  enlarge- 
ment, but  receive  no  new  element. 

Again,  if  it  were  ever  so  true  that  the  sense  of  shame 
in  a child  precedes  all  knowledge  of  consequences,  what 
is  that  to  the  question  respecting  a moral  sense  ? Is 
the  sense  of  shame  the  same  thing  with  a moral  sense  ? 
A child  is  ashamed  of  doing  what  he  is  told  is  wrong ; 
but  so  is  he  also  ashamed  of  doing  what  he  knows  is 
right,  if  he  expects  to  be  laughed  at  for  doing  it  ; he  is 
ashamed  of  being  duller  than  another  child,  of  being 
ugly,  of  being  poor,  of  not  having  fine  clothes,  of  not 
being  able  to  run,  or  wrestle,  or  box  so  well  another. 
He  is  ashamed  of  whatever  causes  him  to  be  thought 
less  of  by  the  persons  who  surround  him.  This  feel- 
ing of  shame  is  accounted  for  by  obvious  associations ; 
but  suppose  it  to  be  innate,  what  would  that  prove  in 
favour  of  a moral  sense  ? If  all  that  Mr.  Sedgwick  can 
show  for  a moral  sense  is  the  sense  of  shame,  it  might 
well  be  supposed  that  all  our  moral  sentiments  are  the 
result  of  opinions  which  come  to  us  from  without  ; 
since  the  sense  of  shame  so  obviously  follows  the 
opinion  of  others,  and,  at  least  in  early  years,  is  wholly 
determined  by  it. 

On  the  Professor’s  first  argument  no  more  needs 
here  be  said.  His  second  is  the  following  : that  moral 
feelings  cannot  “ come  of  mere  teaching,”  because  they 
do  not  grow  up  gradually,  but  are  often  strongest  in 
very  early  life. 

Now,  this  is,  in  the  first  place,  a mistaking  of  the 
matter  in  dispute.  The  Professor  is  not  arguing  with 
Mandeville,  or  with  the  rhetoricians  in  Plato.  Nobody, 


112  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


with  whom  he  is  concerned,  says  that  moral  feelings 
“ come  of  mere  teaching.”  It  is  not  pretended  that 
they  are  factitious  and  artificial  associations,  inculcated 
by  parents  and  teachers  purposely  to  further  certain 
social  ends,  and  no  more  congenial  to  our  natural  feel- 
ings than  the  contrary  associations.  The  idea  of  the 
pain  of  another  is  naturally  painful  ; the  idea  of  the 
pleasure  of  another  is  naturally  pleasurable.  From 
this  fact  in  our  natural  constitution,  all  our  affections 
both  of  love  and  aversion  towards  human  beings,  in  so 
far  as  they  are  different  from  those  we  entertain 
towards  mere  inanimate  objects  which  are  pleasant  or 
disagreeable  to  us,  are  held,  by  the  best  teachers  of  the 
theory  of  utility,  to  originate.  In  this,  the  unselfish 
part  of  our  nature,  lies  a foundation,  even  independently 
of  inculcation  from  without,  for  the  generation  of 
moral  feelings. 

But  if,  because  it  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  con- 
stitution of  our  nature  that  moral  feelings  should  grow 
up  independently  of  teaching,  Mr.  Sedgwick  would 
infer  that  they  generally  do  so,  or  that  teaching  is  not 
the  source  of  almost  all  the  moral  feeling  which  exists 
in  the  world,  his  assertion  is  a piece  of  sentimentality 
completely  at  variance  with  the  facts.  If  by  saying 
that  44  moral  feelings  are  often  strongest  in  very  early 
life,”  Mr.  Sedgwick  means  that  they  are  strongest  in 
children,  he  only  proves  his  ignorance  of  children. 
Young  children  have  affections,  but  not  moral  feelings; 
and  children  whose  will  is  never  resisted,  never  ac- 
quire them.  There  is  no  selfishness  equal  to  that  of 
children,  as  every  one  who  is  acquainted  with  children 
well  knows.  It  is  not  the  hard,  cold  selfishness  of  a 
grown  person,  for  the  most  affectionate  children  have 
it  where  their  affection  is  not  supplying  a counter- 
impulse ; but  the  most  selfish  of  grown  persons  does 
not  come  up  to  a child  in  the  reckless  seizing  of  any 
pleasure  to  himself,  regardless  of  the  consequences  to 
others.  The  pains  of  others,  though  naturally  painful 
to  us,  are  not  so  until  we  have  realized  them  by  an 
act  of  imagination,  implying  voluntary  attention  ; and 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  113 


that  no  very  young  child  ever  pays,  while  under  the 
impulse  of  a present  desire.  If  a child  restrains  the 
indulgence  of  any  wish,  it  is  either  from  affection  or 
sympathy,  which  are  quite  other  feelings  than  those  of 
morality  ; or  else  (whatever  Mr.  Sedgwick  may  think) 
because  he  has  been  taught  to  do  so.  And  he  only 
learns  the  habit  gradually,  and  in  proportion  to  the 
assiduity  and  skill  of  the  teaching. 

The  assertion  that  “ moral  feelings  are  often 
strongest  in  very  early  life,”  is  true  in  no  sense  but 
one,  which  confirms  what  it  is  brought  to  refute. 
The  time  of  life  at  which  moral  feelings  are  apt  to 
be  strongest  is  the  age  when  we  cease  to  be  merely 
members  of  our  own  families,  and  begin  to  have  inter- 
course with  the  world  ; that  is,  when  the  teaching  has 
continued  longest  in  one  direction,  and  has  not  com- 
menced in  any  other  direction.  When  we  go  forth 
into  the  world,  and  meet  with  teaching,  both  by 
precept  and  example,  of  an  opposite  tendency  to  that 
which  we  have  been  used  to,  the  feeling  begins  to 
weaken.  Is  this  a sign  of  its  being  wholly  independent 
of  teaching  ? Has  a boy,  quietly  educated  in  a well- 
regulated  home,  or  one  who  has  been  at  a public 
school,  the  strongest  moral  feelings  ? 

Enough  has  probably  been  said  on  the  Professor’s 
second  argument.  His  third  is,  that  teaching  may 
strengthen  our  natural  faculties,  and  call  forth  those 
which  are  powerless  because  untried  ; but  cannot 
create  a faculty  which  does  not  exist ; cannot,  there- 
fore, have  created  the  moral  faculty. 

It  is  surprising  that  Mr.  Sedgwick  should  not  see 
that  his  argument  begs  the  question  in  dispute.  To 
prove  that  our  moral  judgments  are  innate,  he  assumes 
that  they  proceed  from  a distinct  faculty.  But  this  is 
precisely  what  the  adherents  of  the  principle  of  utility 
deny.  They  contend  that  the  morality  of  actions  is 
perceived  by  the  same  faculties  by  which  we  perceive 
any  other  of  the  qualities  of  actions,  namely,  our 
intellects  and  our  senses.  They  hold  the  capacity  of 
perceiving  moral  distinctions  to  be  no  more  a distinct 

8 


114  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


faculty  than  the  capacity  of  trying  causes,  or  of  making 
a speech  to  a jury.  This  last  is  a very  peculiar  power, 
yet  no  one  says  that  it  must  have  pre-existed  in  Sir 
James  Scarlett  before  he  was  called  to  the  bar,  because 
teaching  and  practice  cannot  create  a new  faculty. 
They  can  create  a new  power ; and  a faculty  is  but  a 
finer  name  for  a power.  Mr.  Sedgwick  loses  sight  of 
the  very  meaning  of  the  word  faculty — facultas.  He 
talks  of  a faculty  “ powerless  because  untried.”  A 
power  powerless  1* 

The  only  colour  for  representing  our  moral  judg- 
ments as  the  result  of  a peculiar  part  of  our  nature,  is 
that  our  feelings  of  moral  approbation  and  disappro- 
bation are  really  peculiar  feelings.  But  is  it  not 
notorious  that  peculiar  feelings,  unlike  any  others 
which  we  have  experience  of,  are  created  by  associa- 
tion every  day  ? What  does  the  Professor  think  of 
the  feelings  of  ambition  ; the  desire  of  power  over  our 
fellow-creatures,  and  the  pleasure  of  its  possession  and 
exercise  ? These  are  peculiar  feelings.  But  they  are 
obviously  generated  by  the  law  of  association,  from 
the  connexion  between  power  over  our  fellow- creatures, 
and  the  gratification  of  almost  all  our  other  inclina- 
tions. What  will  the  Professor  say  of  the  chivalrous 
point  of  honour?  What  of  the  feelings  of  envy  and 
jealousy?  What  of  the  feelings  of  the  miser  to  his 
gold  ? Who  ever  looked  upon  these  last  as  the  subject 
of  a distinct  natural  faculty  ? Their  origin  in  associa- 
tion is  obvious  to  all  the  world.  Yet  they  are  feelings 
as  peculiar,  as  unlike  any  other  part  of  our  nature,  as 
the  feelings  of  conscience. 

It  will  hardly  be  believed  that  what  we  have  now 
answered  is  all  that  Mr.  Sedgwick  advances,  to  prove 
the  principle  of  utility  untrue  ; yet  such  is  the  fact. 
Let  us  now  see  whether  he  is  more  successful  in 

* We  cannot  help  referring  the  Professor  back  to  Locke, 
and  to  that  very  chapter  “ On  Power  ” which  he  singles  out 
for  peculiar  objurgation.  We  recommend  to  his  special 
attention  the  admirable  remarks  in  that  chapter  on  the  abuse 
of  the  word  “ faculty.” 


PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOUESE  115 


proving  the  pernicious  consequences  of  the  principle, 
and  the  “ degrading  effect  ” which  it  produces  “ on  the 
temper  and  conduct  of  those  who  adopt  it.” 

The  Professor’s  talk  is  more  indefinite,  and  the 
few  ideas  he  has  are  more  overlaid  with  declamatory 
phrases,  on  this  point,  than  even  on  the  preceding  one. 
We  can,  however,  descry  through  the  mist  some  faint 
semblance  of  two  tangible  objections:  one,  that  the 
principle  of  utility  is  not  suited  to  man’s  capacity — 
that  if  we  were  ever  so  desirous  of  applying  it  cor- 
rectly, we  should  not  be  capable  ; the  other,  that  it 
debases  the  moral  practice  of  those  who  adopt  it — 
which  seems  to  imply  (strange  as  the  assertion  is) 
that  the  adoption  of  it  as  a principle  is  not  consistent 
with  an  attempt  to  apply  it  correctly. 

We  must  quote  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  very  words,  or  it 
would  hardly  be  believed  that  we  quote  him  fairly  : 

“ Independently  of  the  bad  effects  produced  on  the  moral 
character  of  man,  by  a system  which  makes  expediency  (in 
whatever  sense  the  word  be  used)  the  test  of  right  and  wrong, 
we  may  affirm,  on  a more  general  view,  that  the  rule  itself  is 
utterly  unfitted  to  his  capacity.  Feeble  as  man  may  be,  he 
forms  a link  in  a chain  of  moral  causes,  ascending  to  the 
throne  of  God;  and  trifling  as  his  individual  acts  may  seem, 
he  tries  in  vain  to  follow  out  their  consequences  as  they  go 
down  into  the  countless  ages  of  coming  time.  Viewed  in 
this  light,  every  act  of  man  is  woven  into  a moral  system, 
ascending  through  the  past — descending  to  the  future — and 
preconceived  in  the  mind  of  the  Almighty.  Nor  does  this 
notion,  as  far  as  regards  ourselves,  end  in  mere  quietism  and 
necessity.  For  we  know  right  from  wrong,  and  have  that 
liberty  of  action  which  implies  responsibility  ; and,  as  far  as 
we  are  allowed  to  look  into  the  ways  of  Providence,  it  seems 
compatible  with  his  attributes  to  use  the  voluntary  acts  of 
created  beings,  as  second  causes  in  working  out  the  ends 
of  his  own  will.  Leaving,  however,  out  of  question  that 
stumbling-block  which  the  prescience  of  God  has  often 
thrown  in  the  way  of  feeble  and  doubting  minds,  we  are,  at 
least,  certain,  that  man  has  not  foreknowledge  to  trace  the 
consequences  of  a single  action  of  his  own ; and  hence  that 
utility  (in  the  highest  sense  of  which  the  word  is  capable)  is, 
as  a test  of  right  and  wrong,  unfitted  to  his  understanding, 
and  therefore  worthless  in  its  application.” — pp.  63,  64. 

8—2 


116  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


Mr.  Sedgwick  appears  to  be  one  of  that  numerous 
class  who  never  take  the  trouble  to  set  before  them- 
selves fairly  an  opinion  which  they  have  an  aversion 
to.  Who  ever  said  that  it  was  necessary  to  foresee 
all  the  consequences  of  each  individual  action,  “ as 
they  go  down  into  the  countless  ages  of  coming  time  ” ? 
Some  of  the  consequences  of  an  action  are  accidental ; 
others  are  its  natural  result,  according  to  the  known 
laws  of  the  universe.  The  former,  for  the  most  part, 
cannot  be  foreseen ; but  the  whole  course  of  human 
life  is  founded  upon  the  fact  that  the  latter  can.  In 
what  reliance  do  we  ply  our  several  trades — in  what 
reliance  do  we  buy  or  sell,  eat  or  drink,  write  books 
or  read  them,  walk,  ride,  speak,  think,  except  on  our 
foresight  of  the  consequences  of  those  actions  ? The 
commonest  person  lives  according  to  maxims  of  pru- 
dence wholly  founded  on  foresight  of  consequences  ; 
and  we  are  told  by  a wise  man  from  Cambridge,  that 
the  foresight  of  consequences,  as  a rule  to  guide  our- 
selves by,  is  impossible  1 Our  foresight  of  consequences 
is  not  perfect.  Is  anything  else  in  our  constitution 
perfect  ? Est  quodam  prodire  terms , si  non  datur 
ultra:  Nonpossis  oculo  quantum  contendere  Lynceus ; 
Non  tamen  idcirco  contemnas  lippus  inungi.  If  the 
Professor  quarrels  with  such  means  of  guiding  our 
conduct  as  we  are  gifted  with,  it  is  incumbent  on  him 
to  show  that,  in  point  of  fact,  we  have  been  provided 
with  better.  Does  the  moral  sense,  allowing  its  exist- 
ence, point  out  any  surer  practical  rules  ? If  so,  let 
us  have  them  in  black  and  white.  If  nature  has  given 
us  rules  which  suffice  for  our  conduct,  without  any 
consideration  of  the  probable  consequences  of  our 
actions,  produce  them.  But  no ; for  two  thousand 
years,  Nature’s  moral  code  has  been  a topic  for 
declamation,  and  no  one  has  yet  produced  a 
single  chapter  of  it:  nothing  but  a few  elementary 
generalities,  which  are  the  mere  alphabet  of  a morality 
founded  upon  utility.  Hear  Bishop  Butler,  the  oracle 
of  the  moral- sense  school,  and  whom  our  author 
quotes  : — 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  117 


“ However  much  men  may  have  disputed  about  the  nature 
of  virtue,  and  whatever  ground  for  doubt  there  may  be  about 
particulars,  yet  in  general  there  is  an  universally  acknowledged 
standard  of  it.  It  is  that  which  all  ages  and  all  countries 
have  made  a profession  of  in  public ; it  is  that  which  every 
man  you  meet  puts  on  the  show  of ; it  is  that  which  the 
primary  and  fundamental  laws  of  all  civil  constitutions  over 
the  face  of  the  earth  make  it  their  business  and  endeavour 
to  enforce  the  practice  of  upon  mankind  : namely,  justice, 
veracity,  and  regard  to  the  common  good.” — p.  130. 

Mr.  Sedgwick  praises  Butler  for  not  being  more 
explanatory.*  Did  Butler,  then,  or  does  Mr.  Sedgwick, 
seriously  believe  that  mankind  have  not  sufficient  fore- 
sight of  consequences  to  perceive  the  advantage  of 
“ justice,  veracity,  and  regard  to  the  common  good  ” ? 
That,  without  a peculiar  faculty,  they  would  not  be 
able  to  see  that  these  qualities  are  useful  to  them  ? 

When,  indeed,  the  question  arises,  what  is  justice  ? 
— that  is,  what  are  those  claims  of  others  which  we 
are  bound  to  respect  ? and  what  is  the  conduct  re- 
quired by  “ regard  to  the  common  good  ” ? the  solutions 
which  we  can  deduce  from  our  foresight  of  conse- 
quences are  not  infallible.  But  let  any  one  try  those 
which  he  can  deduce  from  the  moral  sense.  Can  he 
deduce  any  ? Show  us,  written  in  the  human  heart, 
any  answer  to  these  questions.  Bishop  Butler  gives 
up  the  point ; and  Mr.  Sedgwick  praises  him  for  doing 
so.  When  Mr.  Sedgwick  wTants  something  definite, 
to  oppose  to  the  indefiniteness  of  a morality  founded 
on  utility,  he  has  recourse  not  to  the  moral  sense,  but 
to  Christianity.  With  such  fairness  as  this  does  he 
hold  the  balance  between  the  two  principles : he  sup- 
poses his  moral-sense  man  provided  with  all  the 
guidance  which  can  be  derived  from  a revelation  from 
heaven,  and  his  utilitarian  destitute  of  any  such  help. 

* “ Here  everything,1 ” says  he,  “ remains  indefinite  : yet  all 
the  successive  propositions  have  their  meaning.  The  author 
knew  well  that  the  things  he  had  to  deal  with  were  indefinite, 
and  that  he  could  not  fetter  them  in  the  language  of  a formal 
definition,  without  violating  their  nature.  But  how  small  has 
been  the  number  of  moral  writers  who  have  understood  the 
real  value  of  this  forbearance  !” 


118  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


When  one  sees  the  question  so  stated,  one  cannot 
wonder  at  any  conclusion.  Need  we  say  that  Revela- 
lation,  as  a means  of  supplying  the  uncertainty  of 
human  judgment,  is  as  open  to  one  of  the  two  parties 
as  to  the  other?  Need  we  say  that  Paley,  the  very 
author  who,  in  this  Discourse,  is  treated  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  utilitarian  system,  appeals  to  Revela- 
tion throughout  ? and  obtains  no  credit  from  Mr. 
Sedgwick  for  it,  but  the  contrary ; for  Revelation,  it 
seems,  may  be  referred  to  in  aid  of  the  moral  sense, 
but  not  to  assist  or  rectify  our  judgments  of  utility. 

The  truth,  however,  is  that  Revelation  (if  by  Revela- 
tion be  meant  the  New  Testament),  as  Paley  justly 
observed,  enters  little  into  the  details  of  ethics.  Christ- 
ianity does  not  deliver  a code  of  morals,  any  more 
than  a code  of  laws.  Its  practical  morality  is  altogether 
indefinite,  and  was  meant  to  be  so.  This  indefinite- 
ness has  been  considered  by  some  of  the  ablest  defenders 
of  Christianity  as  one  of  its  most  signal  merits,  and 
among  the  strongest  proofs  of  its  divine  origin  : being 
the  quality  which  fits  it  to  be  an  universal  religion, 
and  distinguishes  it  both  from  the  Jewish  dispensation, 
and  from  all  other  religions,  which  as  they  invariably 
enjoin,  under  their  most  awful  sanctions,  acts  which 
are  only  locally  or  temporarily  useful,  are  in  their  own 
nature  local  and  temporary.  Christianity,  on  the 
contrary,  influences  the  conduct  by  shaping  the  charac- 
ter itself : it  aims  at  so  elevating  and  purifying  the 
desires,  that  there  shall  be  no  hindrance  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  our  duties  when  recognised;  but  of  what  our 
duties  are,  at  least  in  regard  to  outward  acts,  it  says 
very  little  but  what  moralists  in  general  have  said.  If, 
therefore,  we  would  have  any  definite  morality  at  all, 
we  must  perforce  resort  to  that  “ foresight  of  conse- 
quences,of  the  difficulties  of  which  the  Professor  has 
so  formidable  an  idea. 

But  this  talk  about  uncertainty  is  mere  exaggeration. 
There  would  be  great  uncertainty  if  each  individual 
had  all  to  do  for  himself,  and  only  his  own  experience 
to  guide  him.  But  we  are  not  so  situated.  Every 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  119 


one  directs  himself  in  morality,  as  in  all  his  conduct, 
not  by  his  own  unaided  foresight,  but  by  the  accumu- 
lated wisdom  of  all  former  ages,  embodied  in  tradi- 
tional aphorisms.  So  strong  is  the  disposition  to 
submit  to  the  authority  of  such  traditions,  and  so  little 
danger  is  there,  in  most  conditions  of  mankind,  of 
erring  on  the  other  side,  that  the  absurdest  customs 
are  perpetuated  through  a lapse  of  ages  from  no  other 
cause.  A hundred  millions  of  human  beings  think  it 
the  most  exalted  virtue  to  swing  by  a hook  before  an 
idol,  and  the  most  dreadful  pollution  to  drink  cow- 
broth — only  because  their  forefathers  thought  so.  A 
Turk  thinks  it  the  height  of  indecency  for  women  to  be 
seen  in  the  streets  unveiled ; and  when  he  is  told  that 
in  some  countries  this  happens  without  any  evil  result, 
he  shakes  his  head  and  says,  “ If  you  hold  butter  to  the 
fire  it  will  melt.”  Did  not  many  generations  of  the 
most  educated  men  in  Europe  believe  every  line  of 
Aristotle  to  be  infallible?  So  difficult  is  it  to  break 
loose  from  a received  opinion.  The  progress  of  experi- 
ence, and  the  growth  of  the  human  intellect,  succeed 
but  too  slowly  in  correcting  and  improving  traditional 
opinions.  There  is  little  fear,  truly,  that  the  mass  of 
mankind  should  insist  upon  “ tracing  the  consequences 
of  actions  ” by  their  own  unaided  lights ; — they  are  but 
too  ready  to  let  it  be  done  for  them  once  for  all,  and  to 
think  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  rules  of  morality 
(as  Tory  writers  say  they  have  with  the  laws)  but  to 
obey  them. 

Mr.  Sedgwick  is  master  of  the  stock  phrases  of  those 
who  know  nothing  of  the  principle  of  utility  but  the 
name.  To  act  upon  rules  of  conduct,  of  which  utility 
is  recognised  as  the  basis,  he  calls  “ waiting  for  the 
calculations  of  utility” — a thing,  according  to  him,  in 
itself  immoral,  since  “ to  hesitate  is  to  rebel.”  On  the 
same  principle,  navigating  by  rule  instead  of  by 
instinct,  might  be  called  waiting  for  the  calculations  of 
astronomy.  There  seems  no  absolute  necessity  for 
putting  off  the  calculations  until  the  ship  is  in  the 
middle  of  the  South  Sea.  Because  a sailor  has  nob 


120  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


verified  all  the  computations  in  the  Nautical  Almanac, 
does  he  therefore  “ hesitate  ” to  use  it  ? 

Thus  far  Mr.  Sedgwick  on  the  difficulties  of  the 
principle  of  utility,  when  we  mean  to  apply  it  honestly. 
But  he  further  charges  the  principle  with  having  a 
“ debasing  ” and  “ degrading  ” effect. 

A word  like  “ debasing  ” applied  to  anything  which 
acts  upon  the  mind,  may  mean  several  things.  It  may 
mean,  making  us  unprincipled ; regardless  of  the  rights 
and  feelings  of  other  people.  It  may  mean,  making 
us  slavish ; spiritless,  submissive  to  injury  or  insult ; 
incapable  of  asserting  our  own  rights,  and  vindicating 
the  just  independence  of  our  minds  and  actions.  It 
may  mean,  making  us  cowardly ; slothful ; incapable 
of  bearing  pain,  or  nerving  ourselves  to  exertion  for 
a worthy  object.  It  may  mean,  making  us  narrow- 
minded ; pusillanimous,  in  Hobbes’s  sense  of  the  word : 
too  intent  upon  little  things  to  feel  rightly  about  great 
ones : incapable  of  having  our  imagination  fired  by  a 
grand  object  of  contemplation  ; incapable  of  thinking, 
feeling,  aspiring,  or  acting,  on  any  but  a small  scale. 
An  opinion  which  produced  any  of  these  effects  upon 
the  mind  would  be  rightly  called  debasing.  But  when, 
without  proving,  or  even  in  plain  terms  asserting,  that 
it  produces  these  effects,  or  any  effects  which  he  can 
make  distinctly  understood,  a man  merely  says  of  an 
opinion  that  it  is  debasing, — all  he  really  says  is,  that 
he  has  a feeling,  which  he  cannot  exactly  describe,  but 
upon  which  he  values  himself,  and  to  which  the  opinion 
is  in  some  way  or  other  offensive.  What  definite  pro- 
position concerning  the  effect  of  any  doctrine  on  the 
mind  can  be  extracted  from  such  a passage  as  this  ? — 

“If  expediency  be  the  measure  of  right,  and  every  one 
claim  the  liberty  of  judgment,  virtue  and  vice  have  no  longer 
any  fixed  relations  to  the  moral  condition  of  man,  but  change 
with  the  fluctuations  of  opinion.  Not  only  are  his  actions 
tainted  by  prejudice  and  passion,  but  his  rule  of  life,  under 
this  system,  must  be  tainted  in  like  degree — must  be  brought 
down  to  its  own  level : for  he  will  no  longer  be  able,  com- 
patibly with  his  principles,  to  separate  the  rule  from  its 
application.  No  high  and  unvarying  standard  of  morality, 


PEOFESSOE  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOUESE  121 


which  his  heart  approves,  however  infirm  his  practice,  will  be 
offered  to  his  thoughts.  But  his  bad  passions  will  continue 
to  do  their  work  in  bending  him  to  the  earth  ; and  unless  he 
be  held  upright  by  the  strong  power  of  religion  (an  extrinsic 
power  which  I am  not  now  considering),  he  will  inevitably 
be  carried  down,  by  a degrading  standard  of  action,  to  a 
sordid  and  grovelling  life.  It  may  perhaps  be  said,  that  we 
are  arguing  against  a rule,  only  from  its  misapprehension  and 
abuse.  But  we  reply,  that  every  precept  is  practically  bad 
when  its  abuse  is  natural  and  inevitable — that  the  system  of 
utility  brings  down  virtue  from  a heavenly  throne,  and  places 
her  on  an  earthly  tribunal,  where  her  decisions,  no  longer 
supported  by  any  holy  sanction,  are  distorted  by  judicial 
ignorance,  and  tainted  by  base  passion.” — p.  63. 

What  does  this  tell  us  ? First,  that  if  utility  be 
the  standard,  different  persons  may  have  different 
opinions  on  morality.  This  is  the  talk  about  uncer- 
tainty which  has  been  already  disposed  of.  Next,  that 
where  there  is  uncertainty,  men’s  passions  will  bias 
their  judgment.  Granted ; this  is  one  of  the  evils  of 
our  condition,  and  must  be  borne  with.  We  do  not 
diminish  it  by  pretending  that  nature  tells  us  what  is 
right,  when  nobody  ever  ventures  to  set  down  what 
nature  tells  us,  nor  affects  to  expound  her  laws  in  any 
way  but  by  an  appeal  to  utility.  All  that  the  remainder 
of  the  passage  does,  is  to  repeat,  in  various  phrases, 
that  Mr.  Sedgwick  feels  such  a “ standard  of  action  ” 
to  be  “ degrading  that  Mr.  Sedgwick  feels  it  to  be 
“ sordid  ” and  “ grovelling.”  If  so,  nobody  can  compel 
Mr.  Sedgwick  to  adopt  it.  If  he  feels  it  debasing,  no 
doubt  it  would  be  so  to  him.  But  until  he  is  able  to 
show  some  reason  why  it  must  be  so  to  others,  may  we 
be  permitted  to  suggest,  that  perhaps  the  cause  of  its 
being  so  to  himself,  is  only  that  he  does  not  under- 
stand it  ? 

Eead  this  : 

“ Christianity  considers  every  act  grounded  on  mere  worldly 
consequences  as  built  on  a false  foundation.  The  mainspring 
of  every  virtue  is  placed  by  it  in  the  affections,  called  into 
renewed  strength  by  a feeling  of  self-abasement — by  gratitude 
for  an  immortal  benefit — by  communion  with  God — and  by 
the  hopes  of  everlasting  life.  Humility  is  the  foundation  of 


122  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


the  Christian’s  honour — distrust  of  self  is  the  ground  of  his 
strength — and  his  religion  tells  him  that  every  work  of  man 
is  counted  worthless  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  as  the  means  of 
his  pardon  or  the  price  of  his  redemption.  Yet  it  gives  him 
a pure  and  perfect  rule  of  life  ; and  does  not  for  an  instant 
exempt  him  from  the  duty  of  obedience  to  his  rule  : for  it 
ever  aims  at  a purgation  of  the  moral  faculties,  and  a renewal 
of  the  defaced  image  of  God ; and  its  moral  precepts  have  an 
everlasting  sanction.  And  thus  does  Christian  love  become 
an  efficient  and  abiding  principle — not  tested  by  the  world, 
but  above  the  world  ; yet  reaching  the  life-spring  of  every 
virtuous  deed,  and  producing  in  its  season  a harvest  of  good 
and  noble  works  incomparably  more  abundant  than  ever  rose 
from  any  other  soil. 

“The  utilitarian  scheme  starts,  on  the  contrary,  with  an 
abrogation  of  the  authority  of  conscience — a rejection  of  the 
moral  feelings  as  the  test  of  right  and  wrong.  From  first  to 
last,  it  is  in  bondage  to  the  world,  measuring  every  act 
by  a worldly  standard,  and  estimating  its  value  by  worldly 
consequences.  Virtue  becomes  a question  of  calculation — a 
matter  of  profit  or  loss ; and  if  man  gain  heaven  at  all  on 
such  a system,  it  must  be  by  arithmetical  details — the  com- 
putation of  his  daily  work — the  balance  of  his  moral  ledger. 
A conclusion  such  as  this  offends  against  the  spirit  breathing 
in  every  page  of  the  book  of  life  ; yet  is  it  fairly  drawn  from 
the  principle  of  utility.  It  appears,  indeed,  not  only  to  have 
been  foreseen  by  Paley,  but  to  have  been  accepted  by  him — 
a striking  instance  of  the  tenacity  with  which  man  ever 
clings  to  system,  and  is  ready  to  embrace  even  its  monstrous 
consequences  rather  than  believe  that  he  has  himself  been 
building  on  a wrong  foundation.” — pp.  66,  67. 

In  a note,  he  adds 

“ The  following  are  the  passages  here  referred  to  : — 

“ 4 The  Christian  religion  hath  not  ascertained  the  precise 
quantity  of  virtue  necessary  to  salvation.’  *q  V 

44  4 It  has  been  said,  that  it  can  never  be  adjust  economy  of 
Providence  to  admit  one  part  of  mankind  into  heaven,  and 
condemn  the  other  to  hell ; since  there  must  be  very  little  to 
choose  between  the  worst  man  who  is  received  into  heaven, 
and  the  best  who  is  excluded.  And  how  know  we,  it  might 
be  answered,  but  that  there  may  be  as  little  to  choose  in  their 
conditions  ?’ — Moral  Philosophy,  book  i.,  ch.  7. 

44 In  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  Paley  would,  I believe,  have 
been  incapable  of  uttering  or  conceiving  sentiments  such  as 
these.” 

So  that  a “ purgation  of  the  moral  faculties  ” is 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  128 


necessary : the  moral  feelings  require  to  be  corrected. 
Yet  the  moral  feelings  are  “ the  test  of  right  and 
wrong  ” ; and  whoever  “ rejects  ” them  as  a test,  must 
be  called  hard  names.  But  we  do  not  want  to  convict 
Mr.  Sedgwick  of  inconsistency ; we  want  to  get  at  his 
meaning.  Have  we  come  to  it  at  last  ? The  gravamen 
of  the  charge  against  the  principle  of  utility  seems  to 
lie  in  a word.  Utility  is  a worldly  standard  ; and 
estimates  every  act  by  worldly  consequences. 

Like  most  persons  who  are  speaking  from  their 
feelings  only,  on  a subject  on  which  they  have  never 
seriously  thought,  the  Professor  is  imposed  upon  by 
words.  He  is  carried  away  by  an  ambiguity.  To 
make  his  assertion  about  the  worldliness  of  the 
standard  of  utility  true,  it  must  be  understood  in  one 
sense  ; to  make  it  have  the  invidious  effect  which 
is  intended,  it  must  be  understood  in  another.  By 
“ worldly,”  does  he  mean  to  imply  what  is  commonly 
meant  when  the  word  is  used  as  a reproach — an  undue 
regard  to  interest  in  the  vulgar  sense,  our  wealth, 
power,  social  position,  and  the  like,  our  command 
over  agreeable  outward  objects,  and  over  the  opinion 
and  good  offices  of  other  people  ? If  so,  to  call  utility 
a worldly  standard  is  to  misrepresent  the  doctrine. 
It  is  not  true  that  utility  estimates  actions  by  this 
sort  of  consequences ; it  estimates  them  by  all  their 
consequences.  If  he  means  that  the  principle  of 
utility  regards  only  (to  use  a scholastic  distinction) 
the  objective  consequences  of  actions,  and  omits  the 
subjective  ; attends  to  the  effects  on  our  outward  con- 
dition, and  that  of  other  people,  too  much — to  those 
on  our  internal  sources  of  happiness  or  unhappiness, 
too  little  ; this  criticism  is,  as  we  have  already  re- 
marked, in  some  degree  applicable  to  Paley  ; but  to 
charge  this  blunder  upon  the  principle  of  utility,  would 
be  to  say,  that  if  it  is  your  rule  to  judge  of  a thing  by 
its  consequences,  you  will  judge  only  by  a portion  of 
them.  Again,  if  Mr.  Sedgwick  meant  to  speak  of  a 
“ worldly  standard  ” in  contradistinction  to  a religious 
standard,  and  to  say  that  if  we  adopt  the  principle  of 


124  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


utility,  we  cannot  admit  religion  as  a sanction  for  it, 
or  cannot  attach  importance  to  religious  motives  or 
feelings,  the  assertion  would  be  simply  false,  and  a 
gross  injustice  even  to  Paley.  What,  therefore,  can 
Mr.  Sedgwick  mean  ? Merely  this  : that  our  actions 
take  place  in  the  world;  that  their  consequences  are 
produced  in  the  world ; that  we  have  been  placed  in 
the  world ; and  that  there,  if  anywhere,  we  must  earn 
a place  in  heaven.  The  morality  founded  on  utility 
allows  this,  certainly  : does  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  system  of 
morality  deny  it  ? 

Mark  the  confusion  of  ideas  involved  in  this  sentence : 
“ Christianity  considers  every  act  grounded  on  mere 
worldly  consequences  as  built  on  a false  foundation.” 
Wliat  is  saving  a father  from  death,  but  saving  him 
from  a worldly  consequence  ? What  are  healing  the 
sick,  clothing  the  naked,  sheltering  the  houseless,  but 
acts  which  wholly  consist  in  producing  a worldly  conse- 
quence ? Confine  Mr.  Sedgwick  to  unambiguous  words, 
and  he  is  already  answered.  What  is  really  true  is, 
that  Christianity  considers  no  act  as  meritorious  which 
is  done  from  mere  worldly  motives ; that  is,  which  is 
in  no  degree  prompted  by  the  desire  of  our  own  moral 
perfection,  or  of  the  approbation  of  a perfect  being. 
These  motives,  we  need  scarcely  observe,  may  be 
equally  powerful,  whatever  be  our  standard  of  morality, 
provided  we  believe  that  the  Deity  approves  it. 

Mr.  Sedgwick  is  scandalized  at  the  supposition  that 
the  place  awarded  to  each  of  us  in  the  next  world  will 
depend  on  the  balance  of  the  good  and  evil  of  our  lives. 
According  to  his  notions  of  justice,  we  presume,  it 
ought  to  depend  wholly  upon  one  of  the  two.  As 
usual,  Mr.  Sedgwick  begins  by  a misapprehension ; he 
neither  understands  Paley,  nor  the  conclusion  which, 
he  says,  is  “ fairly  drawn  from  the  principles  of  utility.” 
Paley  held,  with  other  Christians,  that  our  place  here- 
after would  be  determined  by  our  degree  of  moral 
perfection;  that  is,  by  the  balance,  not  of  our  good 
and  evil  deeds , which  depend  upon  opportunity  and 
temptation,  but  of  our  good  and  evil  dispositions  ; by 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  125 


the  intensity  and  continuity  of  our  will  to  do  good  ; 
by  the  strength  with  which  we  have  struggled  to  be 
virtuous ; not  by  our  accidental  lapses,  or  by  the  unin- 
tended good  or  evil  which  has  followed  from  our  actions. 
When  Paley  said  that  Christianity  has  not  ascertained 
“ the  precise  quantity  of  virtue  necessary  to  salvation,” 
he  did  not  mean  the  number  or  kind  of  beneficial 
actions ; he  meant,  that  Christianity  has  not  decided 
what  positive  strength  of  virtuous  inclinations,  and 
what  capacity  of  resisting  temptations,  will  procure 
acquittal  at  the  tribunal  of  God.  And  most  wisely 
is  this  left  undecided.  Nor  can  there  be  a solution 
more  consistent  with  the  attributes  which  Christianity 
ascribes  to  the  Deity,  than  Paley’s  own — that  every 
step  of  advance  in  moral  perfection,  will  be  something 
gained  towards  everlasting  welfare. 

The  remainder  of  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  argument — if 
argument  it  can  be  called — is  a perpetual  ignoratio 
elenchi.  He  lumps  up  the  principle  of  utility — which 
is  a theory  of  right  and  wrong — with  the  theory,  if 
there  be  such  a theory,  of  the  universal  selfishness 
of  mankind.  We  never  know,  for  many  sentences 
together,  which  of  the  two  he  is  arguing  against  ; he 
never  seems  to  know  it  himself.  He  begins  a sentence 
on  the  one,  and  ends  it  on  the  other.  In  his  mind  they 
seem  to  be  one  and  the  same.  Read  this  : 

“ Utilitarian  philosophy  and  Christian  ethics  have  in  their 
principles  and  motives  no  common  bond  of  union,  and  ought 
never  to  have  been  linked  together  in  one  system  : for, 
palliate  and  disguise  the  difference  as  we  may,  we  shall  find 
at  last  that  they  rest  on  separate  foundations;  one  deriving 
all  its  strength  from  the  moral  feelings,  and  the  other  from 
the  selfish  passions  of  our  nature.” — p.  67. 

Or  this 

“If  we  suppress  the  authority  of  conscience,  reject  the 
moral  feelings,  rid  ourselves  of  the  sentiments  of  honour,  and 
sink  (as  men  too  often  do)  below  the  influence  of  religion ; 
and  if,  at  the  same  time,  we  are  taught  to  think  that  utility 
is  the  universal  test  of  right  and  wrong  ; what  is  there  left 
within  us  as  an  antagonist  power  to  the  craving  of  passion,  or 
the  base  appetite  of  worldly  gain  ? In  such  a condition  of 


126  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


the  soul,  all  motive  not  terminating  in  mere  passion  becomes 
utterly  devoid  of  meaning.  On  this  system,  the  sinner  is  no 
longer  abhorred  as  a rebel  against  his  better  nature — as  one 
who  profanely  mutilates  the  image  of  God ; he  acts  only  on 
the  principles  of  other  men,  but  he  blunders  in  calculating 
the  chances  of  his  personal  advantage  : and  thus  we  deprive 
virtue  of  its  holiness,  and  vice  of  its  deformity  ; humanity  of 
its  honour,  and  language  of  its  meaning  ; we  shut  out,  as  no 
better  than  madness  or  folly,  the  loftiest  sentiments  of  the 
heathen  as  well  as  of  the  Christian  world:  and  all  that  is 
great  or  generous  in  our  nature  droops  under  the  influence  of 
a cold  and  withering  selfishness.” — pp.  76,  77. 

Every  line  of  this  passage  convicts  Mr.  Sedgwick  of 
never  having  taken  the  trouble  to  know  the  meaning 
of  the  terms  in  which  the  doctrine  he  so  eagerly  vilifies 
is  conveyed.  What  has  “calculating  the  chances  of 
personal  advantage  ” to  do  with  the  principle  of  utility  ? 
The  object  of  Mr.  Sedgwick  is,  to  represent  that  prin- 
ciple as  leading  to  the  conclusion,  that  a vicious  man  is 
no  more  a subject  of  disapprobation  than  a person  who 
blunders  in  a question  of  prudence.  If  Mr.  Sedgwick 
did  but  know  what  the  principle  of  utility  is,  he  would 
see  that  it  leads  to  no  such  conclusion.  Some  people 
have  been  led  to  that  conclusion,  not  by  the  principle 
of  utility,  but  either  by  the  doctrine  of  philosophical 
necessity,  incorrectly  understood,  or  by  a theory  of 
motives,  which  has  been  called  the  selfish  theory  ; and 
oven  from  that  it  does  not  justly  follow. 

The  finery  about  shutting  out  Ci  lofty  sentiments  55 
scarcely  deserves  notice.  It  resembles  what  is  said  in 
the  next  page  about  “ suppressing  all  the  kindly  emo- 
tions which  minister  to  virtue.”  We  are  far  from 
charging  Mr.  Sedgwick  with  wilful  misrepresentation, 
but  this  is  the  very  next  thing  to  it — misrepresentation 
in  voluntary  ignorance.  Who  proposes  to  suppress  any 
“ kindly  emotion  ”?  Human  beings,  the  Professor  may 
be  assured,  will  always  love  and  honour  every  senti- 
ment, whether  “lofty”  or  otherwise,  which  is  either 
directly  pointed  to  their  good,  or  tends  to  raise  the 
mind  above  the  influence  of  the  petty  objects  for  the 
sake  of  which  mankind  injure  one  another.  The  Pro- 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  127 


fessor  is  afraid  that  the  sinner  will  be  “no  longer 
abhorred.”  We  imagined  that  it  was  not  the  sinner 
who  should  be  abhorred,  but  sin.  Mankind,  however, 
are  sufficiently  ready  to  abhor  whatever  is  obviously 
noxious  to  them.  A human  being  filled  with  male- 
volent dispositions,  or  coldly  indifferent  to  the  feelings 
of  his  fellow-creatures,  will  never,  the  Professor  may 
assure  himself,  be  amiable  in  their  eyes.  Whether 
they  will  speak  of  him  as  “ a rebel  against  his  better 
nature,” — “ one  who  profanely  mutilates  the  image  of 
God,”  and  so  on,  will  depend  upon  whether  they  are 
proficients  in  commonplace  rhetoric.  But  whatever 
words  they  use,  rely  on  it,  that  while  men  dread  and 
abhor  a wolf  or  a serpent,  which  have  no  better  nature, 
and  no  image  of  God  to  mutilate,  they  will  abhor  with 
infinitely  greater  intensity  a human  being  who,  out- 
wardly resembling  themselves,  is  inwardly  their 
enemy,  and,  being  far  more  powerful  than  “ toad  or 
asp,”  voluntarily  cherishes  the  same  disposition  to 
mischief. 

If  utility  be  the  standard,  “ the  end,”  in  the  Profes- 
sor’s opinion,  “will  be  made  to  sanctify  the  means” 
(p.  78).  We  answer — just  so  far  as  in  any  other  system, 
and  no  farther.  In  every  system  of  morality,  the  end, 
when  good,  justifies  all  means  which  do  not  conflict 
with  some  more  important  good.  On  Mr.  Sedgwick’s 
own  scheme,  are  there  not  ends  which  sanctify  actions, 
in  other  cases  deserving  the  utmost  abhorrence  —such, 
for  instance,  as  taking  the  life  of  a fellow- creature  in 
cold  blood,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  people  ? Accord- 
ing to  the  principle  of  utility,  the  end  justifies  all 
means  necessary  to  its  attainment,  except  those  which 
are  more  mischievous  than  the  end  is  useful;  an 
exception  amply  sufficient. 

We  have  now  concluded  our  examination  of  Mr. 
Sedgwick  : first,  as  a commentator  on  the  studies  which 
form  part  of  a liberal  education;  and  next,  as  an 
assailant  of  the  “ utilitarian  theory  of  morals.”  We 
have  shown  that,  on  the  former  subject,  he  has 


128  PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE 


omitted  almost  everything  which  ought  to  have  been 
said  ; that  almost  all  which  he  has  said  is  trivial,  and 
much  of  it  erroneous.  With  regard  to  the  other  part 
of  his  design,  we  have  shown  that  he  has  not  only 
failed  to  refute  the  doctrine  that  human  happiness 
is  the  foundation  of  morality,  but  has,  in  the  attempt, 
proved  himself  not  to  understand  what  the  doctrine  is  ; 
and  to  be  capable  of  bringing  the  most  serious  charges 
against  other  men’s  opinions,  and  themselves,  which 
even  a smattering  of  the  knowledge  appropriate  to  the 
subject,  would  have  shown  to  be  groundless. 

We  by  no  means  affect  to  consider  Mr.  Sedgwick  as 
(what  he  would  not  himself  claim  to  be)  a sufficient 
advocate  of  the  cause  he  has  espoused,  nor  pretend  that 
his  pages  contain  the  best  that  can  be  said,  or  even  the 
best  that  has  been  said,  against  the  theory  of  utility. 
That  theory  numbers  among  its  enemies,  minds  of 
almost  every  degree  of  power  and  intellectual  accom- 
plishments ; among  whom  many  are  capable  of  making 
out  a much  better  apparent  case  for  their  opinion. 
But  Mr.  Sedgwick’s  is  a fair  enough  sample  of  the 
popular  arguments  against  the  theory ; his  book  has 
had  more  readers  and  more  applauders  than  a better 
book  would  have  had,  because  it  is  level  with  a lower 
class  of  capacities : and  though,  by  pointing  out  its 
imperfections,  we  do  little  to  establish  our  own  opinion, 
it  is  something  to  have  shown  on  how  light  grounds,  in 
some  cases,  men  of  gravity  and  reputation  arraign  the 
opinion,  and  are  admired  and  applauded  for  so  arraign- 
ing it. 

The  question  is  not  one  of  pure  speculation.  Not  to 
mention  the  importance,  to  those  who  are  entrusted 
with  the  education  of  the  moral  sentiments,  of  just 
views  respecting  their  origin  and  nature ; we  may  re- 
mark that,  upon  the  truth  or  falseness  of  the  doctrine 
of  a moral  sense,  it  depends  whether  morality  is  a fixed 
or  a progressive  body  of  doctrine.  If  it  be  true  that 
man  has  a sense  given  him  to  determine  what  is  right 
and  wrong,  it  follows  that  his  moral  judgments  and 
feelings  cannot  be  susceptible  of  any  improvement ; 


PROFESSOR  SEDGWICK’S  DISCOURSE  129 


such  as  they  are  they  ought  to  remain.  The  question, 
what  mankind  in  general  ought  to  think  and  feel  on 
the  subject  of  their  duty,  must  be  determined  by  ob- 
serving what,  when  no  interest  or  passion  can  be  seen 
to  bias  them,  they  think  and  feel  already.  According 
to  the  theory  of  utility,  on  the  contrary,  the  question, 
what  is  our  duty,  is  as  open  to  discussion  as  any  other 
question.  Moral  doctrines  are  no  more  to  be  received 
without  evidence,  nor  to  be  sifted  less  carefully,  than 
any  other  doctrines.  An  appeal  lies,  as  on  all  other 
subjects,  from  a received  opinion,  however  generally 
entertained,  to  the  decisions  of  cultivated  reason.  The 
weakness  of  human  intellect,  and  all  the  other  infirmi- 
ties of  our  nature,  are  considered  to  interfere  as  much 
with  the  rectitude  of  our  judgments  on  morality,  as  on 
any  other  of  our  concerns  ; and  changes  as  great  are 
anticipated  in  our  opinions  on  that  subject,  as  on  every 
other,  both  from  the  progress  of  intelligence,  from 
more  authentic  and  enlarged  experience,  and  from 
alterations  in  the  condition  of  the  human  race,  requir- 
ing altered  rules  of  conduct. 

It  deeply  concerns  the  greatest  interest  of  our  race, 
that  the  only  mode  of  treating  ethical  questions  which 
aims  at  correcting  existing  maxims,  and  rectifying  any 
of  the  perversions  of  existing  feeling,  should  not  be 
borne  down  by  clamour.  The  contemners  of  analysis 
have  long  enough  had  all  the  pretension  to  themselves. 
They  have  had  the  monopoly  of  the  claim  to  pure, 
and  lofty,  and  sublime  principles  ; and  those  who  gave 
reasons  to  justify  their  feelings  have  submitted  to  be 
cried  down  as  low,  and  cold,  and  degraded.  We  hope 
they  will  submit  no  longer ; and  not  content  with 
meeting  the  metaphysics  of  their  more  powerful  adver- 
saries by  profounder  metaphysics,  will  join  battle  in 
the  field  of  popular  controversy  with  every  antagonist 
of  name  and  reputation,  even  when,  as  in  the  present 
case,  his  name  and  reputation  are  his  only  claims  to 
be  heard  on  such  a subject. 


CIVILIZATION  * 


The  word  Civilization,  like  many  other  terms  of  the 
philosophy  of  human  nature,  is  a word  of  double 
meaning.  It  sometimes  stands  for  human  improve- 
ment in  general,  and  sometimes  for  certain  hinds  of 
improvement  in  particular. 

We  are  accustomed  to  call  a country  more  civilized 
if  we  think  it  more  improved ; more  eminent  in  the 
best  characteristics  of  Man  and  Society  ; farther 
advanced  in  the  road  to  perfection  ; happier,  nobler, 
wiser.  This  is  one  sense  of  the  word  civilization. 
But  in  another  sense  it  stands  for  that  kind  of  im- 
provement only,  which  distinguishes  a wealthy  and  : 
powerful  nation  from  savages  or  barbarians.  It  is  in 
this  sense  that  we  may  speak  of  the  vices  or  the 
miseries  of  civilization ; and  that  the  question  has 
been  seriously  propounded,  whether  civilization  is  on 
the  whole  a good  or  an  evil  ? Assuredly,  we  enter- 
tain no  doubt  on  this  point ; we  hold  that  civilization 
is  a good,  that  it  is  the  cause  of  much  good,  and  not 
incompatible  with  any  ; but  we  think  there  is  other 
good,  much  even  of  the  highest  good,  which  civiliza- 
tion  in  this  sense  does  not  provide  for,  and  some  which 
it  has  a tendency  (though  that  tendency  may  be  i 
counteracted)  to  impede. 

The  inquiry  into  which  these  considerations  would 
lead,  is  calculated  to  throw  light  upon  many  of  the 
characteristic  features  of  our  time.  The  present  era 
is  pre-eminently  the  era  of  civilization  in  the  narrow 
sense,  whether  we  consider  what  has  already  been 
achieved,  or  the  rapid  advances  making  towards  still 
greater  achievements.  We  do  not  regard  the  age  as 
either  equally  advanced  or  equally  progressive  in 
many  of  the  other  kinds  of  improvement.  In  some 

* London  and  Westminster  Review , April,  1836. 

130 


CIVILIZATION 


131 


it  appears  to  ns  stationary,  in  some  even  retrograde. 
Moreover,  the  irresistible  consequences  of  a state  of 
advancing  civilization  ; the  new  position  in  which  that 
advance  has  placed,  and  is  every  day  more  and  more 
placing,  mankind;  the  entire  inapplicability  of  old 
rules  to  this  new  position,  and  the  necessity,  if  we 
would  either  realize  the  benefits  of  the  new  state  or 
preserve  those  of  the  old,  that  we  should  adopt  many 
new  rules,  and  new  courses  of  action,  are  topics  which 
seem  to  require  a more  comprehensive  examination 
than  they  have  usually  received. 

We  shall  on  the  present  occasion  use  the  word 
civilization  only  in  the  restricted  sense : not  that  in 
which  it  is  synonymous  with  improvement,  but  that 
in  whua3a.it  t.hp  divp.p.t  p.nnvRraft  nr  contrary  of  rude- 
^ ness  or  barbarism.  Whatever  be  the  characteristics 
of  what  we  call  savage  life,  the  contrary  of  these,  or 
the  qualities  which  society  puts  on  as  it  throws  off 
these,  constitute  civilization.  Thus,  a savage  tribe 
consists  of  a handful  of  individuals,  wandering  or 
thinly  scattered  over  a vast  tract  of  country  : a dense 
population,  therefore,  dwelling  in  fixed  habitations, 
and  largely  collected  together  in  towns  and  villages, 
we  term  civilized.  In  savage  life  there  is  no  commerce, 
no  manufactures,  no  agriculture,  or  next  to  none : a 
country  rich  in  the  fruits  of  agriculture,  commerce, 
and  manufactures,  we  call  civilized.  In  savage  com- 
munities each  person  shifts  for  himself ; except  in  war 
(and  even  then  very  imperfectly),  we  seldom  see  any 
joint  operations  carried  on  by  the  union  of  many  ; 
N^nor  do  savages,  in  general,  find  much  pleasure  in  each 
other’s  society.  Wherever,  therefore,  we  find  human 
beings  acting  together  for  common  purposes  in  large 
bodies,  and  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  social  inter- 
course, we  term  them  civilized.  In  savage  life  there 
is  little  or  no  law,  or  administration  of  justice  ; no 
systematic  employment  of  the  collective  strength  of 
society,  to  protect  individuals  against  injury  from  one 
another ; every  one  trusts  to  his  own  strength  or 

9—2 


132 


CIVILIZATION 


s 


cunning,  and  where  that  fails,  he  is  generally  without 
resource.  We  accordingly  call  a people  civilized, 
where  the  arrangements  of  society,  for  protecting  the 
persons  and  property  of  its  members,  are  sufficiently  per- 
fect to  maintain  peace  among  them  ; i.e.,  to  induce  the 
bulk  of  the  community  to  rely  for  their  security  mainly 
upon  social  arrangements,  and  renounce  for  the  most 
part,  and  in  ordinary  circumstances,  the  vindication 
of  their  interests  (whether  in  the  way  of  aggression 
or  of  defence)  by  their  individual  strength  or  courage. 

These  ingredients  of  civilization  are  various,  but 
consideration  will  satisfy  us  that  they  are  not  impro- 
perly classed  together.  History,  and  their  own  nature, 
alike  show  that  they  begin  together,  always  co-exist, 
and  accompany  each  other  in  their  growth.  Wherever 
there  has  arisen  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  arts  of 
life,  and  sufficient  security  of  property  and  person,  to 
render  the  progressive  increase  of  wealth  and  popula- 
tion possible,  the  community  becomes  and  continues 
progressive  in  all  the  elements  which  we  have  just 
enumerated.  These  elements  exist  in  modern  Europe, 
and  especially  in  Great  Britain,  in  a more  eminent 
degree,  and  in  a state  of  more  rapid  progression,  than 
at  any  other  place  or  time.  We  propose  to  consider 
some  of  the  consequences  which  that  high  and  pro- 
gressive state  of  civilization  has  already  produced,  and 
of  the  further  ones  which  it  is  hastening  to  produce. 

The  most  remarkable  of  those  consequences  of  ad- 
vancing civilization,  which  the  state  of  the  world  is 
now  forcing  upon  the  attention  of  thinking  minds,  is 
this  : that  power  passes  more  and  more  from  indi- 
^^sdduals,  and  small  knots  of  individuals,  to  masses : 
that  the  importance  of  the  masses  becomes  constantly 
greater,  that  of  individuals  less. 

The  causes,  evidences,  and  consequences  of  this  law 
of  human  affairs,  well  deserve  attention. 

There  are  two  elements  of  importance  and  influence 
among  mankind : the  one  is,  property  ; the  other, 
powers  and  acquirements  of  mind.  Both  of  these, 


CIVILIZATION 


133 


in  an  early  stage  of  civilization,  are  confined  to  a few 
persons.  In  the  beginnings  of  society,  the  power  of 
the  masses  does  not  exist ; because  property  and  intel- 
ligence have  no  existence  beyond  a very  small  portion 
of  the  community,  and  even  if  they  had,  those  who 
possessed  the  smaller  portions  would  be,  from  their 
incapacity  of  co-operation,  unable  to  cope  with  those 
who  possessed  the  larger. 

In  the  more  backward  countries  of  the  present  time, 
and  in  all  Europe  at  no  distant  date,  we  see  property 
entirely  concentrated  in  a small  number  of  hands ; 
the  remainder  of  the  people  being,  with  few  exceptions, 
either  the  military  retainers  and  dependents  of  the 
possessors  of  property,  or  serfs,  stripped  and  tortured 
at  pleasure  by  one  master,  and  pillaged  by  a hundred. 
At  no  period  could  it  be  said  that  there  was  literally 
no  middle  class — but  that  class  was  extremely  feeble, 
both  in  numbers  and  in  power  : while  the  labouring 
people,  absorbed  in  manual  toil,  with  difficulty  earned, 
by  the  utmost  excess  of  exertion,  a more  or  less  scanty 
and  always  precarious  subsistence.  The  character  of 
this  state  of  society  was  the  utmost  excess  of  poverty 
and  impotence  in  the  masses  ; the  most  enormous  im- 
portance and  uncontrollable  power  of  a small  number 
of  individuals,  each  of  whom,  within  his  own  sphere, 
knew  neither  law  nor  superior. 

We  must  leave  to  history  to  unfold  the  gradual  rise 
of  the  trading  and  manufacturing  classes,  the  gradual 
emancipation  of  the  agricultural,  the  tumults  and 
bouleversements  which  accompanied  these  changes  in 
their  course,  and  the  extraordinary  alterations  in 
institutions,  opinions,  habits,  and  the  whole  of  social 
life,  which  they  brought  in  their  train.  We  need  only 
ask  the  reader  to  form  a conception  of  all  that  is 
implied  in  the  words,  growth  of  a middle  class  ; and 
then  to  reflect  on  the  immense  increase  of  the  numbers 
and  property  of  that  class  throughout  Great  Britain, 
France,  Germany,  and  other  countries,  in  every  suc- 
cessive generation,  and  the  novelty  of  a labouring 
class  receiving  such  wages  as  are  now  commonly 


134 


CIVILIZATION 


earned  by  nearly  the  whole  of  the  manufacturing, 
that  is,  of  the  most  numerous  portion  of  the  operative 
classes  of  this  country — and  ask  himself  whether, 
from  causes  so  unheard-of,  unheard-of  effects  ought 
not  to  be  expected  to  flow.  It  must  at  least  be 
evident,  that  if,  as  civilization  advances,  property  and 
intelligence  become  thus  widely  diffused  among  the 
millions,  it  must  also  be  an  effect  of  civilization,  that 
the  portion  of  either  of  these  which  can  belong  to  an 
individual  must  have  a tendency  to  become  less  and 
less  influential,  and  all  results  must  more  and  more  be 
decided  by  the  movements  of  masses  ; provided  that 
the  power  of  combination  among  the  masses  keeps 
pace  with  the  progress  of  their  resources.  And  that 
it  does  so,  who  can  doubt  ? There  is  not  a more 
accurate  test  of  the  progress  of  civilization  than  the 
progress  of  the  powder  of  co-operation. 

Consider  the  savage  : he  has  bodily  strength,  he  has 
courage,  enterprise,  and  is  often  not  without  intelli- 
gence ; what  makes  all  savage  communities  poor  and 
feeble?  The  same  cause  which  prevented  the  lions 
and  tigers  from  long  ago  extirpating  the  race  of  men 
— incapacity  of  co-operation.  It  is  only  civilized 
beings  who  can  combine.  All  combination  is  com- 
promise : it  is  the  sacrifice  of  some  portion  of  indi- 
vidual will,  for  a common  purpose.  The  savage 
^^<pannot  bear  to  sacrifice,  for  any  purpose,  the  satisfac- 
tion of  his  individual  will.  His  social  cannot  even 
temporarily  prevail  over  his  selfish  feelings,  nor  his 
impulses  bend  to  his  calculations.  Look  again  at  the 
slave  : he  is  used  indeed  to  make  his  will  give  way  ; 
but  to  the  commands  of  a master,  not  to  a superior 
purpose  of  his  own.  He  is  wanting  in  intelligence  to 
form  such  a purpose  ; above  all,  he  cannot  frame  to 
himself  the  conception  of  a fixed  rule : nor  if  he  could, 
has  he  the  capacity  to  adhere  to  it ; he  is  habituated 
to  control,  but  not  to  self-control ; when  a driver  is 
not  standing  over  him  with  a whip,  he  is  found  more 
incapable  of  withstanding  any  temptation,  or  restrain- 
ing any  inclination,  than  the  savage  himself. 


CIVILIZATION 


135 


We  have  taken  extreme  cases,  that  the  fact  we  seek 
to  illustrate  might  stand  out  more  conspicuously. 
But  the  remark  itself  applies  universally.  As  any 
people  approach  to  the  condition  of  savages  or  of 
slaves,  so  are  they  incapable  of  acting  in  concert. 

\ Consider  even  war,  the  most  serious  business  of  a 
^ barbarous  people  ; see  what  a figure  rude  nations,  or 
semi -civilized  and  enslaved  nations,  have  made  against 
civilized  ones,  from  Marathon  downwards.  Why  ? 
Because  discipline  is  more  powerful  than  numbers, 
and  discipline,  that  is,  perfect  co-operation,  is  an 
attribute  of  civilization.  To  come  to  our  own  times, 
the  whole  history  of  the  Peninsular  War  bears  witness 
to  the  incapacity  of  an  imperfectly  civilized  people  for 
co-operation.  Amidst  all  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
Spanish  nation  struggling  against  Napoleon,  no  one 
leader,  military  or  political,  could  act  in  concert  with 
another ; no  one  would  sacrifice  one  iota  of  his  conse- 
quence, his  authority,  or  his  opinion,  to  the  most 
obvious  demands  of  the  common  cause  ; neither 
generals  nor  soldiers  could  observe  the  simplest  rules 
of  the  military  art.  If  there  be  an  interest  which  one 
might  expect  to  act  forcibly  upon  the  minds  even  of 
savages,  it  is  the  desire  of  simultaneously  crushing  a 
formidable  neighbour  whom  none  of  them  are  strong 
enough  to  resist  single-handed ; yet  none  but  civilized 
nations  have  ever  been  capable  of  forming  an  alliance. 
The  native  states  of  India  have  been  conquered  by 
the  English  one  by  one ; Turkey  made  peace  with 
Bussia  in  the  very  moment  of  her  invasion  by  France  ; 
the  nations  of  the  world  never  could  form  a confede- 
racy against  the  Romans,  but  were  swallowed  up  in 
succession,  some  of  them  being  always  ready  to  aid 
in  the  subjugation  of  the  rest.  Enterprises  requiring 
the  voluntary  co-operation  of  many  persons  indepen- 
dent of  one  another,  in  the  hands  of  all  but  highly 
civilized  nations,  have  always  failed. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  see  why  this  incapacity  of 
organized  combination  characterizes  savages,  and  dis- 
appears with  the  growth  of  civilization.  Co-operation, 


136 


CIVILIZATION 


^ilike  other  difficult  things,  can  be  learnt  only  by  prac- 
tice : and  to  be  capable  of  it  in  great  things,  a people 
must  be  gradually  trained  to  it  in  small.  Now,  the 
whole  course  of  advancing  civilization  is  a series  of 
such  training.  The  labourer  in  a rude  state  of  society 
works  singly,  or  if  several  are  brought  to  work  together 
by  the  will  of  a master,  they  work  side  by  side,  but  not 
in  concert ; one  man  digs  his  piece  of  ground,  another 
digs  a similar  piece  of  ground  close  by  him.  In  the 
situation  of  an  ignorant  labourer,  tilling  even  his  own 
field  with  his  own  hands,  and  associating  with  no  one 
except  his  wife  and  his  children,  what  is  there  that  can 
teach  him  to  co-operate?  The  division  of  employ- 
ments— the  accomplishment  by  the  combined  labour 
of  several,  of  tasks  which  could  not  be  achieved  by 
any  number  of  persons  singly — is  the  great  school  of 
co-operation.  What  a lesson,  for  instance,  is  naviga- 
tion, as  soon  as  it  passes  out  of  its  first  simple  stage ; 
the  safety  of  all,  constantly  depending  upon  the  vigi- 
lant performance  by  each,  of  the  part  peculiarly 
allotted  to  him  in  the  common  task.  Military  opera- 
tions, when  not  wholly  undisciplined,  are  a similar 
school;  so  are  all  the  operations  of  commerce  and 
manufactures  which  require  the  employment  of  many 
hands  upon  the  same  thing  at  the  same  time.  By 
these  operations,  mankind  learn  the  value  of  combi- 
nation ; they  see  how  much  and  with  what  ease  it 
accomplishes  that  which  never  could  be  accomplished 
without  it ; they  learn  a practical  lesson  of  submitting 
themselves  to  guidance,  and  subduing  themselves  to 
act  as  interdependent  parts  of  a complex  whole.  A 
people  thus  progressively  trained  to  combination  by 
the  business  of  their  lives,  become  capable  of  carrying 
the  same  habits  into  new  things.  For  it  holds  univer- 
sally, that  the  one  only  mode  of  learning  to  do  anything, 
is  actually  doing  something  of  the  same  kind  under 
easier  circumstances.  Habits  of  discipline  once  ac- 
quired, qualify  human  beings  to  accomplish  all  other 
things  for  which  discipline  is  needed.  No  longer 
either  spurning  control,  or  incapable  of  seeing  its 


CIVILIZATION 


137 


advantages;  whenever  any  object  presents  itself  which 
can  be  attained  by  co-operation,  and  which  they  see  or 
believe  to  be  beneficial,  they  are  ripe  for  attaining  it. 

The  characters,  then,  of  a state  of  high  civilization 
being  the  diffusion  of  property  and  intelligence,  and 
the  power  of  co-operation,  the  next  thing  to  observe 
is  the  unexampled  development  which  all  these 
elements  have  assumed  of  late  years. 

The  rapidity  with  which  property  has  accumulated 
and  is  accumulating  in  the  principal  countries  of 
Europe,  but  especially  in  this  island,  is  obvious  to 
every  one.  The  capital  of  the  industrious  classes 
overflows  into  foreign  countries,  and  into  all  kinds 
of  wild  speculations.  The  amount  of  capital  annually 
exported  from  Great  Britain  alone,  surpasses  probably 
v^the  whole  wealth  of  the  most  flourishing  commercial 
republics  of  antiquity.  But  this  capital,  collectively 
so  vast,  is  mainly  composed  of  small  portions;  very 
generally  so  small  that  the  owners  cannot,  without 
other  means  of  livelihood,  subsist  on  the  profits  of 
them.  While  such  is  the  growth  of  property  in  the 
hands  of  the  mass,  the  circumstances  of  the  higher 
classes  have  undergone  nothing  like  a corresponding 
improvement.  Many  large  fortunes  have,  it  is  true, 
been  accumulated,  but  many  others  have  been  wholly 
or  partially  dissipated  ; for  the  inheritors  of  immense 
fortunes,  as  a class,  always  live  at  least  up  to  their 
^incomes  when  at  the  highest,  and  the  unavoidable 
vicissitudes  of  those  incomes  are  always  sinking  them 
deeper  and  deeper  into  debt.  A large  proportion  of  the 
English  landlords,  as  they  themselves  are  constantly 
telling  us,  are  so  overwhelmed  with  mortgages,  that 
they  have  ceased  to  be  the  real  owners  of  the  bulk 
of  their  estates.  In  other  countries  the  large  properties 
have  very  generally  been  broken  down  ; in  France,  by 
revolution,  and  the  revolutionary  law  of  inheritance ; 
in  Prussia,  by  successive  edicts  of  that  substantially 
democratic,  though  formally  absolute  government. 

With  respect  to  knowledge  and  intelligence,  it  is  the 
truism  of  the  age,  that  the  masses,  both  of  the  middle 


138 


CIVILIZATION 


and  even  of  the  working  classes,  are  treading  upon  the 
heels  of  their  superiors. 

If  we  now  consider  the  progress  made  by  those 
same  masses  in  the  capacity  and  habit  of  co-operation, 
we  find  it  equally  surprising.  At  what  period  were 
the  operations  of  productive  industry  carried  on  upon 
anything  like  their  present  scale  ? Were  so  many 
hands  ever  before  employed  at  the  same  time  upon 
the  same  work,  as  now  in  all  the  principal  departments 
of  manufactures  and  commerce  ? To  how  enormous 
an  extent  is  business  now  carried  on  by  joint-stock 
companies — in  other  words,  by  many  small  capitals 
thrown  together  to  form  one  great  one.  The  country 
is  covered  with  associations.  There  are  societies  for 
political,  societies  for  religious,  societies  for  philan- 
thropic purposes.  But  the  greatest  novelty  of  all  is 
^^dtthe  spirit  of  combination  which  has  grown  up  among 
the  working  classes.  The  present  age  has  seen  the 
commencement  of  benefit  societies  ; and  they  now, 
as  well  as  the  more  questionable  Trades  Unions,  over- 
spread the  whole  country.  A more  powerful,  though 
not  so  ostensible,  instrument  of  combination  than  any 
of  these,  has  but  lately  become  universally  accessible 
— the  newspaper.  The  newspaper  carries  home  the 
voice  of  the  many  to  every  individual  among  them ; 
by  the  newspaper,  each  learns  that  others  are  feeling 
as  he  feels,  and  that  if  he  is  ready,  he  will  find  them 
also  prepared  to  act  upon  what  they  feel.  The  news- 
paper is  the  telegraph  which  carries  the  signal 
throughout  the  country,  and  the  flag  round  which 
it  rallies.  Hundreds  of  newspapers  speaking  in  the 
same  voice  at  once,  and  the  rapidity  of  communica- 
tion afforded  by  improved  means  of  locomotion,  were 
what  enabled  the  whole  country  to  combine  in  that 
simultaneous  energetic  demonstration  of  determined 
will  which  carried  the  Reform  Act.  Both  these  faci- 
lities are  on  the  increase,  every  one  may  see  how 
rapidly ; and  they  will  enable  the  people  on  all  deci- 
sive occasions  to  form  a collective  will,  and  render  that 
collective  will  irresistible. 


CIVILIZATION 


189 


To  meet  this  wonderful  development  of  physical  and 
mental  power  on  the  part  of  the  masses,  can  it  be  said 
that  there  has  been  any  corresponding  quantity  of 
intellectual  power  or  moral  energy  unfolded  among 
those  individuals  or  classes  who  have  enjoyed  superior 
advantages  ? No  one,  we  think,  will  affirm  it.  There 
is  a great  increase  of  humanity,  a decline  of  bigotry, 
as  well  as  of  arrogance  and  the  conceit  of  caste,  among 
our  conspicuous  classes  ; but  there  is,  to  say  the  least, 
no  increase  of  shining  ability,  and  a very  marked 
decrease  of  vigour  and  energy.  With  all  the  advan- 
tages of  this  age,  its  facilities  for  mental  cultivation, 
the  incitements  and  the  rewards  which  it  holds  out  to 
exalted  talents,  there  can  scarcely  be  pointed  out  in  the 
European  annals  any  stirring  times  which  have  brought 
so  little  that  is  distinguished,  either  morally  or  intel- 
lectually, to  the  surface. 

That  this,  too,  is  no  more  than  was  to  be  expected 
from  the  tendencies  of  civilization,  when  no  attempt 
is  made  to  correct  them,  we  shall  have  occasion  to  show 
presently.  But  even  if  civilization  did  nothing  to  lower 
the  eminences,  it  would  produce  an  exactly  similar 
effect  by  raising  the  plains.  When  the  masses  become 
powerful,  an  individual,  or  a small  band  of  individuals, 
can  accomplish  nothing  considerable  except  by  in- 
fluencing the  masses  ; and  to  do  this  becomes  daily 
more  difficult,  from  the  constantly  increasing  number 
of  those  who  are  vying  with  one  another  to  attract  the 
public  attention.  Our  position,  therefore,  is  estab- 
lished, that  by  the  natural  growth  of  civilization,  power 
passes  from  individuals  to  masses,  and  the  weight  and 
importance  of  an  individual,  as  compared  with  the 
mass,  sink  into  greater  and  greater  insignificance. 


The  change  which  is  thus  in  progress,  and  to  a great 
extent  consummated,  is  the  greatest  ever  recorded  in 
social  affairs ; the  most  complete,  the  most  fruitful  in 
consequences,  and  the  most  irrevocable.  Whoever  can 
meditate  on  it,  and  not  see  that  so  great  a revolution 
vitiates  all  existing  rules  of  government  and  policy, 


140 


CIVILIZATION 


and  renders  all  practice  and  all  predictions  grounded 
only  on  prior  experience  worthless,  is  wanting  in  the 
very  first  and  most  elementary  principle  of  states- 
manship in  these  times. 

“ II  faut,”  as  M.  de  Tocqueville  has  said,  “ une  science 
politique  nouvelle  a un  monde  tout  nouveau.”  The 
whole  face  of  society  is  reversed — all  the  natural 
elements  of  power  have  definitely  changed  places,  and 
there  are  people  who  talk  of  standing  up  for  ancient 
institutions,  and  the  duty  of  sticking  to  the  British 
Constitution  settled  in  1688  ! What  is  still  more  extra- 
ordinary, these  are  the  people  who  accuse  others  of 
disregarding  variety  of  circumstances,  and  imposing 
their  abstract  theories  upon  all  states  of  society  without 
discrimination. 

We  put  it  to  those  who  call  themselves  Conserva- 
tives, whether,  when  the  chief  power  in  society  is 
passing  into  the  hands  of  the  masses,  they  really  think 
it  possible  to  prevent  the  masses  from  making  that 
power  predominant  as  well  in  the  government  as  else- 
where ? The  triumph  of  democracy,  or,  in  other 
words,  of  the  government  of  public  opinion,  does  not 
depend  upon  the  opinion  of  any  individual  or  set  of 
individuals  that  it  ought  to  triumph,  but  upon  the 
natural  laws  of  the  progress  of  wealth,  upon  the 
diffusion  of  reading,  and  the  increase  of  the  facilities 
of  human  intercourse.  If  Lord  Kenyon  or  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle  could  stop  these,  they  might  accomplish 
something.  There  is  no  danger  of  the  prevalence  of 
democracy  in  Syria  or  Timbuctoo.  But  he  must  be  a 
poor  politician  who  does  not  know,  that  whatever  is 
the  growing  power  in  society  will  force  its  way  into  the 
government,  by  fair  means  or  foul.  The  distribution 
of  constitutional  power  cannot  long  continue  very 
different  from  that  of  real  power,  without  a convulsion. 
Nor,  if  the  institutions  which  impede  the  progress  of 
democracy  could  be  by  any  miracle  preserved,  could 
even  they  do  more  than  render  that  progress  a little 
slower.  Were  the  Constitution  of  Great  Britain  to 
remain  henceforth  unaltered,  we  are  not  the  less  under 


CIVILIZATION  141 

the  dominion,  becoming  every  day  more  irresistible,  of 
public  opinion. 

With  regard  to  the  advance  of  democracy,  there  are 
two  different  positions  which  it  is  possible  for  a rational 
person  to  take  up,  according  as  he  thinks  the  masses 
prepared,  or  unprepared,  to  exercise  the  control  which 
they  are  acquiring  over  their  destiny,  in  a manner 
which  would  be  an  improvement  upon  what  now  exists. 
If  he  thinks  them  prepared,  he  will  aid  the  democratic 
movement ; or  if  he  deem  it  to  be  proceeding  fast 
enough  without  him,  he  will  at  all  events  refrain  from 
resisting  it.  If,  on  the  contrary,  he  thinks  the  masses 
unprepared  for  complete  control  over  their  government 
— seeing  at  the  same  time  that,  prepared  or  not,  they 
cannot  long  be  prevented  from  acquiring  it — he  will 
exert  his  utmost  efforts  in  contributing  to  prepare  them ; 
using  all  means,  on  the  one  hand,  for  making  the 
masses  themselves  wiser  and  better ; on  the  other,  for 
so  rousing  the  slumbering  energy  of  the  opulent  and 
lettered  classes,  so  storing  the  youth  of  those  classes 
with  the  profoundest  and  most  valuable  knowledge,  so 
calling  forth  whatever  of  individual  greatness  exists  or 
can  be  raised  up  in  the  country,  as  to  create  a power 
which  might  partially  rival  the  mere  power  of  the 
masses,  and  might  exercise  the  most  salutary  influence 
over  them  for  their  own  good.  When  engaged  earnestly 
in  works  like  these,  one  can  understand  how  a rational 
person  might  think  that  in  order  to  give  more  time  for 
the  performance  of  them,  it  were  well  if  the  current 
of  democracy,  which  can  in  no  sort  be  stayed,  could  be 
prevailed  upon  for  a time  to  flow  less  impetuously. 
With  Conservatives  of  this  sort,  all  democrats  of  cor- 
responding enlargement  of  aims  could  fraternize  as 
frankly  and  cordially  as  with  most  of  their  own 
friends : and  we  speak  from  an  extensive  knowledge  of 
the  wisest  and  most  high-minded  of  that  body,  when 
we  take  upon  ourselves  to  answer  for  them,  that  they 
would  never  push  forward  their  own  political  projects 
in  a spirit  or  with  a violence  which  could  tend  to 
frustrate  any  rational  endeavours  towards  the  object 


142 


CIVILIZATION 


nearest  their  hearts,  the  instruction  of  the  understand- 
ings and  the  elevation  of  the  characters  of  all  classes 
of  their  countrymen. 

Bat  who  is  there  among  the  political  party  calling 
themselves  Conservatives,  that  professes  to  have  any 
such  object  in  view?  Do  they  seek  to  employ  the 
interval  of  respite  which  they  might  hope  to  gain  by 
withstanding  democracy,  in  qualifying  the  people  to 
wield  the  democracy  more  wisely  when  it  comes  ? 
Would  they  not  far  rather  resist  any  such  endeavour, 
on  the  principle  that  knowledge  is  power,  and  that  its 
further  diffusion  would  make  the  dreaded  evil  come 
sooner  ? Do  the  leading  Conservatives  in  either  house 
of  parliament  feel  that  the  character  of  the  higher 
classes  needs  renovating,  to  qualify  them  for  a more 
arduous  task  and  a keener  strife  than  has  yet  fallen 
to  their  lot  ? Is  not  the  character  of  a Tory  lord  or 
country  gentleman,  or  a Church  of  England  parson, 
perfectly  satisfactory  to  them  ? Is  not  the  existing 
constitution  of  the  two  universities — those  bodies  whose 
especial  duty  it  was  to  counteract  the  debilitating  in- 
fluence of  the  circumstances  of  the  age  upon  individual 
character,  and  to  send  forth  into  society  a succession  of 
minds,  not  the  creatures  of  their  age,  but  capable  of 
being  its  improvers  and  regenerators — the  Universities, 
by  whom  this  their  especial  duty  has  been  basely  neg- 
lected, until,  as  is  usual  with  all  neglected  duties,  the 
very  consciousness  of  it  as  a duty  has  faded  from  their 
remembrance, — is  not,  we  say,  the  existing  constitution 
and  the  whole  existing  system  of  these  Universities, 
down  to  the  smallest  of  their  abuses,  the  exclusion  of 
Dissenters,  a thing  for  which  every  Tory,  though  he 
may  not,  as  he  pretends,  die  in  the  last  ditch,  will  at 
least  vote  in  the  last  division  ? The  Church,  profes- 
sedly the  other  great  instrument  of  national  culture, 
long  since  perverted  (we  speak  of  rules,  not  exceptions) 
into  a grand  instrument  for  discouraging  all  culture  in- 
consistent with  blind  obedience  to  established  maxims 
and  constituted  authorities — what  Tory  has  a scheme 
in  view  for  any  changes  in  this  body,  but  such  as  may 


CIVILIZATION 


143 


pacify  assailants,  and  make  the  institution  wear  a less 
disgusting  appearance  to  the  eye  ? What  political 
Tory  will  not  resist  to  the  very  last  moment  any  altera- 
tion in  that  Church,  which  would  prevent  its  livings 
from  being  the  provision  for  a family,  its  dignities  the 
reward  of  political  or  of  private  services  ? The  Tories, 
those  at  least  connected  with  parliament  or  office,  do 
not  aim  at  having  good  institutions,  or  even  at  pre- 
serving the  present  ones  : their  object  is  to  profit  by 
them  while  they  exist. 

We  scruple  not  to  express  our  belief  that  a truer 
spirit  of  conservation,  as  to  everything  good  in  the 
principles  and  professed  objects  of  our  old  institutions, 
lives  in  more  who  are  determined  enemies  of  those 
institutions  in  their  present  state,  than  in  most  of 
those  who  call  themselves  Conservatives.  But  there 
are  many  well-meaning  people  who  always  confound 
attachment  to  an  end,  with  pertinacious  adherence  to 
any  set  of  means  by  which  it  either  is,  or  is  pretended 
to  be,  already  pursued  ; and  have  yet  to  learn,  that 
bodies  of  men  who  live  in  honour  and  importance  upon 
the  pretence  of  fulfilling  ends  which  they  never 
honestly  seek,  are  the  great  hindrance  to  the  attain- 
ment of  those  ends  ; and  that  whoever  has  the  attain- 
ment really  at  heart,  must  expect  a "war  of  extermina- 
tion with  all  such  confederacies. 

Thus  far  as  to  the  political  effects  of  Civilization. 
Its  moral  effects,  which  as  yet  we  have  only  glanced 
at,  demand  further  elucidation.  They  may  be  con- 
sidered under  two  heads : the  direct  influence  of 
Civilization  itself  upon  individual  character,  and 
the  moral  effects  produced  by  the  insignificance  into 
which  the  individual  falls  in  comparison  with  the 
masses. 

One  of  the  effects  of  a high  state  of  civilization 
upon  character,  is  a relaxation  of  individual  energy : 
or  rather  the  concentration  of  it  within  the  narrow 
sphere  of  the  individual’s  money-getting  pursuits.  As 
civilization  advances,  every  person  becomes  dependent,., 


144 


CIVILIZATION 


for  more  and  more  of  what  most  nearly  concerns  him, 
not  upon  his  own  exertions,  but  upon  the  general 
arrangements  of  society.  In  a rude  state,  each  man’s 
personal  security,  the  protection  of  his  family,  his 
property,  his  liberty  itself,  depend  greatly  upon  his 
bodily  strength  and  his  mental  energy  or  cunning : in 
a civilized  state,  all  this  is  secured  to  him  by  causes  ex- 
trinsic to  himself.  The  growing  mildness  of  manners 
is  a protection  to  him  against  much  that  he  was  before 
exposed  to,  while  for  the  remainder  he  may  rely  with 
constantly  increasing  assurance  upon  the  soldier,  the 
policeman,  and  the  judge ; and  (where  the  efficiency  or 
purity  of  those  instruments,  as  is  usually  the  case,  lags 
behind  the  general  march  of  civilization)  upon  the 
advancing  strength  of  public  opinion.  There  remain, 
as  inducements  to  call  forth  energy  of  character, 
the  desire  of  wealth  or  of  personal  aggrandizement, 
the  passion  of  philanthropy,  and  the  love  of  active 
virtue.  But  the  objects  to  which  these  various  feel- 
ings point  are  matters  of  choice,  not  of  necessity, 
nor  do  the  feelings  act  with  anything  like  equal  force 
upon  all  minds.  The  only  one  of  them  which  can 
be  considered  as  anything  like  universal,  is  the  desire 
of  wealth ; and  wealth  being,  in  the  case  of  the 
majority,  the  most  accessible  means  of  gratifying 
all  their  other  desires,  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
energy  of  character  which  exists  in  highly  civilized 
societies  concentrates  itself  on  the  pursuit  of  that 
object.  In  the  case,  however,  of  the  most  influen- 
tial classes — those  whose  energies,  if  they  had  them, 
might  be  exercised  on  the  greatest  scale  and  with 
the  most  considerable  result — the  desire  of  wealth  is 
already  sufficiently  satisfied,  to  render  them  averse 
to  suffer  pain  or  incur  much  voluntary  labour  for 
the  sake  of  any  further  increase.  The  same  classes 
also  enjoy,  from  their  station  alone,  a high  degree 
of  personal  consideration.  Except  the  high  offices 
of  the  State,  there  is  hardly  anything  to  tempt  the 
ambition  of  men  in  their  circumstances.  Those  offices, 
when  a great  nobleman  could  have  them  for  asking 


CIVILIZATION 


145 


for,  and  keep  them  with  less  trouble  than  he  could 
manage  his  private  estate,  were,  no  doubt,  desirable 
enough  possessions  for  such  persons  ; but  when  they 
become  posts  of  labour,  vexation,  and  anxiety,  and 
besides  cannot  be  had  without  paying  the  price  of 
some  previous  toil,  experience  shows  than  among 
men  unaccustomed  to  sacrifice  their  amusements 
and  their  ease,  the  number  upon  whom  these  high 
offices  operate  as  incentives  to  activity,  or  in  whom 
they  call  forth  any  vigour  of  character,  is  extremely 
limited.  Thus  it  happens  that  in  highly  civilized 
countries,  and  particularly  among  ourselves,  the 
energies  of  the  middle  classes  are  almost  confined 
to  money-getting,  and  those  of  the  higher  classes 
are  nearly  extinct. 

There  is  another  circumstance  to  which  we  may 
trace  much  both  of  the  good  and  of  the  bad  qualities 
which  distinguish  our  civilization  from  the  rudeness 
of  former  times.  One  of  the  effects  of  civilization 
(not  to  say  one  of  the  ingredients  in  it)  is,  that  the 
spectacle,  and  even  the  very  idea,  of  pain,  is  kept 
more  and  more  out  of  the  sight  of  those  classes  who 
enjoy  in  their  fulness  the  benefits  of  civilization.  The 
state  of  perpetual  personal  conflict,  rendered  necessary 
by  the  circumstances  of  former  times,  and  from  which 
it  was  hardly  possible  for  any  person,  in  whatever 
rank  of  society,  to  be  exempt,  necessarily  habituated 
every  one  to  the  spectacle  of  harshness,  rudeness,  and 
violence,  to  the  struggle  of  one  indomitable  will 
against  another,  and  to  the  alternate  suffering  and 
infliction  of  pain.  These  things,  consequently,  were 
not  as  revolting  even  to  the  best  and  most  actively 
benevolent  men  of  former  days,  as  they  are  to  our 
own  ; and  we  find  the  recorded  conduct  of  those  men 
frequently  such  as  would  be  universally  considered 
very  unfeeling  in  a person  of  our  own  day.  They, 
however,  thought  less  of  the  infliction  of  pain,  because 
they  thought  less  of  pain  altogether.  When  we  read 
of  actions  of  the  Greeks  and  Eomans,  or  of  our  own 
ancestors,  denoting  callousness  to  human  suffering, 

10 


146 


CIVILIZATION 


we  must  not  think  that  those  who  committed  these 
actions  were  as  cruel  as  we  must  become  before  we 
could  do  the  like.  The  pain  which  they  inflicted, 
they  were  in  the  habit  of  voluntarily  undergoing  from 
slight  causes  ; it  did  not  appear  to  them  as  great 
an  evil,  as  it  appears,  and  as  it  really  is,  to  us,  nor 
did  it  in  any  way  degrade  their  minds.  In  our  own 
time  the  necessity  of  personal  collision  between  one 
person  and  another  is,  comparatively  speaking,  almost 
at  an  end.  All  those  necessary  portions  of  the  busi- 
ness of  society  which  oblige  any  person  to  be  the 
immediate  agent  or  ocular  witness  of  the  infliction  of 
pain,  are  delegated  by  common  consent  to  peculiar 
and  narrow  classes : to  the  judge,  the  soldier,  the 
surgeon,  the  butcher,  and  the  executioner.  To  most 
people  in  easy  circumstances,  any  pain,  except  that 
inflicted  upon  the  body  by  accident  or  disease,  and 
upon  the  mind  by  the  inevitable  sorrows  of  life,  is 
rather  a thing  known  of  than  actually  experienced. 
This  is  much  more  emphatically  true  in  the  more 
refined  classes,  and  as  refinement  advances : for  it  is 
in  avoiding  the  presence  not  only  of  actual  pain,  but 
of  whatever  suggests  offensive  or  disagreeable  ideas, 
that  a great  part  of  refinement  consists.  We  may 
remark  too,  that  this  is  possible  only  by  a perfection 
of  mechanical  arrangements  impracticable  in  any  but 
a high  state  of  civilization.  Now,  most  kinds  of  pain  , 
and  annoyance  appear  much  more  unendurable  to 
those  who  have  little  experience  of  them,  than  to  those  , 
who  have  much.  The  consequence  is  that,  compared 
with  former  times,  there  is  in  the  more  opulent  classes  •< 
of  modern  civilized  communities  much  more  of  the  ; 
amiable  and  humane,  and  much  less  of  the  heroic. 
The  heroic  essentially  consists  in  being  ready,  for  a 
worthy  object,  to  do  and  to  suffer,  but  especially  to 
do,  what  is  painful  or  disagreeable  : and  whoever  does 
not  early  learn  to  be  capable  of  this,  will  never  be 
a great  character.  There  has  crept  over  the  refined 
classes,  over  the  whole  class  of  gentlemen  in  England, 
a moral  effeminacy,  an  inaptitude  for  every  kind  of 


CIVILIZATION 


147 


struggle.  They  shrink  from  all  effort,  from  every- 
thing which  is  troublesome  and  disagreeable.  The 
same  causes  which  render  them  sluggish  and  unenter- 
prising, make  them,  it  is  true,  for  the  most  part,  stoical 
under  inevitable  evils.  But  heroism  is  an  active,  not  a 
passive  quality  ; and  when  it  is  necessary  not  to  bear 
pain  but  to  seek  it,  little  needs  be  expected  from  the  men 
of  the  present  day.  They  cannot  undergo  labour,  they 
cannot  brook  ridicule,  they  cannot  brave  evil  tongues  : 
they  have  not  the  hardihood  to  say  an  unpleasant 
thing  to  any  one  whom  they  are  in  the  habit  of  seeing, 
or  to  face,  even  with  a nation  at  their  back,  the  cold- 
ness of  some  little  coterie  which  surrounds  them. 
This  torpidity  and  cowardice,  as  a general  charac- 
teristic, is  new  in  the  world : but  (modified  by  the 
different  temperaments  of  different  nations)  it  is  a 
natural  consequence  of  the  progress  of  civilization, 
and  will  continue  until  met  by  a system  of  cultivation 
adapted  to  counteract  it. 

If  the  source  of  great  virtues  thus  dries  up,  great 
vices  are  placed,  no  doubt,  under  considerable  restraint. 
The  regime  of  public  opinion  is  adverse  to  at  least  the 
indecorous  vices  : and  as  that  restraining  power  gains 
strength,  and  certain  classes  or  individuals  cease  to 
possess  a virtual  exemption  from  it,  the  change  is 
highly  favourable  to  the  outward  decencies  of  life. 
Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  the  diffusion  of  even  such 
knowledge  as  civilization  naturally  brings,  has  no 
slight  tendency  to  rectify,  though  it  be  but  partially, 
the  standard  of  public  opinion;  to  undermine  many 
of  those  prejudices  and  superstitions  which  made  man- 
kind hate  each  other  for  things  not  really  odious  ; to 
make  them  take  a juster  measure  of  the  tendencies  of 
actions,  and  weigh  more  correctly  the  evidence  on 
which  they  condemn  or  applaud  their  fellow-creatures ; 
to  make,  in  short,  their  approbation  direct  itself 
more  correctly  to  good  actions,  and  their  disappro- 
bation to  bad.  What  are  the  limits  to  this  natural 
improvement  in  public  opinion,  when  there  is  no  other 
sort  of  cultivation  going  on  than  that  which  is  the 

10—2 


148 


CIVILIZATION 


accompaniment  of  civilization,  we  need  not  at  present 
inquire.  It  is  enough  that  within  those  limits  there 
is  an  extensive  range ; that  as  much  improvement  in 
the  general  understanding,  softening  of  the  feelings, 
and  decay  of  pernicious  errors,  as  naturally  attends 
the  progress  of  wealth  and  the  spread  of  reading, 
suffices  to  render  the  judgment  of  the  public  upon 
actions  and  persons,  so  far  as  evidence  is  before  them, 
much  more  discriminating  and  correct. 

But  here  presents  itself  another  ramification  of  the 
effects  of  civilization,  which  it  has  often  surprised  us 
to  find  so  little  attended  to.  The  individual  becomes 
so  lost  in  the  crowd,  that  though  he  depends  more 
and  more  upon  opinion,  he  is  apt  to  depend  less  and 
less  upon  well-grounded  opinion  ; upon  the  opinion 
of  those  who  know  him.  An  established  character 
becomes  at  once  more  difficult  to  gain,  and  more  easily 
to  be  dispensed  with. 

It  is  in  a small  society,  where  everybody  knows 
everybody,  that  public  opinion,  so  far  as  well  directed, 
exercises  its  most  salutary  influence.  Take  the  case 
of  a tradesman  in  a small  country  town  : to  every  one 
of  his  customers  he  is  long  and  accurately  known  ; 
their  opinion  of  him  has  been  formed  after  repeated 
trials ; if  he  could  deceive  them  once,  he  cannot  hope 
to  go  on  deceiving  them  in  the  quality  of  his  goods  ; 
he  has  no  other  customers  to  look  for  if  he  loses  these, 
while,  if  his  goods  are  really  what  they  profess  to  be, 
he  may  hope,  among  so  few  competitors,  that  this 
also  will  be  known  and  recognised,  and  that  he  will 
acquire  the  character,  individually  and  professionally, 
which  his  conduct  entitles  him  to.  Far  different  is 
the  case  of  a man  setting  up  in  business  in  the  crowded 
streets  of  a great  city.  If  he  trusts  solely  to  the  quality 
of  his  goods,  to  the  honesty  and  faithfulness  with  which 
he  performs  what  he  undertakes,  he  may  remain  ten 
years  without  a customer  : be  he  ever  so  honest,  he  is 
driven  to  cry  out  on  the  housetops  that  his  wares  are 
the  best  of  wares,  past,  present,  and  to  come  ; while  if 
he  proclaim  this,  however  false,  with  sufficient  loud- 


CIVILIZATION 


149 


ness  to  excite  the  curiosity  of  passers-by,  and  can  give 
his  commodities  “ a gloss,  a saleable  look,”  not  easily  to 
be  seen  through  at  a superficial  glance,  he  may  drive  a 
thriving  trade  though  no  customer  ever  enter  his  shop 
twice.  There  has  been  much  complaint  of  late  years, 
of  the  growth,  both  in  the  world  of  trade  and  in  that 
of  intellect,  of  quackery,  and  especially  of  puffing  : but 
nobody  seems  to  have  remarked,  that  these  are  the 
inevitable  fruits  of  immense  competition ; of  a state 
of  society  where  any  voice,  not  pitched  in  an  exag- 
gerated key,  is  lost  in  the  hubbub.  Success,  in  so 
crowded  a field,  depends  not  upon  what  a person  is, 
but  upon  what  he  seems  : mere  marketable  qualities 
become  the  object  instead  of  substantial  ones,  and  a 
man’s  labour  and  capital  are  expended  less  in  doing 
anything,  than  in  persuading  other  people  that  he  has 
done  it.  Our  own  age  has  seen  this  evil  brought  to  its 
consummation.  Quackery  there  always  was,  but  it 
once  was  a test  of  the  absence  of  sterling  qualities ; 
there  was  a proverb  that  good  wine  needed  no  bush. 
It  is  our  own  age  which  has  seen  the  honest  dealer 
driven  to  quackery,  by  hard  necessity,  and  the  cer- 
tainty of  being  undersold  by  the  dishonest.  For  the 
first  time,  arts  for  attracting  public  attention  form  a 
necessary  part  of  the  qualifications  even  of  the  de- 
serving : and  skill  in  these  goes  farther  than  any 
other  quality  towards  ensuring  success.  The  same 
intensity  of  competition  drives  the  trading  public 
more  and  more  to  play  high  for  success,  to  throw  for 
all  or  nothing ; and  this,  together  with  the  difficulty 
of  sure  calculations  in  a field  of  commerce  so  widely 
extended,  renders  bankruptcy  no  longer  disgraceful, 
because  no  longer  an  almost  certain  presumption 
either  of  dishonesty  or  imprudence : the  discredit 
which  it  still  incurs  belongs  to  it,  alas  ! mainly  as 
an  indication  of  poverty.  Thus  public  opinion  loses 
another  of  those  simple  criteria  of  desert,  which,  and 
which  alone,  it  is  capable  of  correctly  applying ; and 
the  very  cause  which  has  rendered  it  omnipotent  in 
the  gross,  weakens  the  precision  and  force  with  which 
its  judgment  is  brought  home  to  individuals. 


150 


CIVILIZATION 


It  is  not  solely  on  the  private  virtues,  that  this 
growing  insignificance  of  the  individual  in  the  mass, 
is  productive  of  mischief.  It  corrupts  the  very  foun- 
tain of  the  improvement  of  public  opinion  itself;  it 
corrupts  public  teaching ; it  weakens  the  influence  of 
the  more  cultivated  few  over  the  many.  Literature 
has  suffered  more  than  any  other  human  production 
by  the  common  disease.  When  there  were  few  books, 
and  when  few  read  at  all  save  those  who  had  been 
accustomed  to  read  the  best  authors,  books  were 
written  with  the  well-grounded  expectation  that  they 
would  be  read  carefully,  and  if  they  deserved  it,  would 
be  read  often.  A book  of  sterling  merit,  when  it  came 
out,  was  sure  to  be  heard  of,  and  might  hope  to  be 
read,  by  the  whole  reading  class ; it  might  succeed  by 
its  real  excellences,  though  not  got  up  to  strike  at 
once;  and  even  if  so  got  up,  unless  it  had  the  support 
of  genuine  merit,  it  fell  into  oblivion.  The  rewards 
were  then  for  him  who  wrote  well , not  much;  for  the 
laborious  and  learned,  not  the  crude  and  ill-informed 
writer.  But  now  the  case  is  reversed.  “ This  is  a 
reading  age ; and  precisely  because  it  is  so  reading 
an  age,  any  book  which  is  the  result  of  profound 
meditation  is,  perhaps,  less  likely  to  be  duly  and  pro- 
fitably read  than  at  a former  period.  The  world  reads 
too  much  and  too  quickly  to  read  well.  When  books 
were  few,  to  get  through  one  was  a work  of  time  and 
labour  : what  was  written  with  thought  was  read  with 
thought,  and  with  a desire  to  extract  from  it  as  much 
of  the  materials  of  knowledge  as  possible.  But  when 
almost  every  person  who  can  spell,  can  and  will  write, 
what  is  to  be  done  ? It  is  difficult  to  know  what  to 
read,  except  by  reading  everything;  and  so  much  of 
the  world’s  business  is  now  transacted  through  the 
press,  that  it  is  necessary  to  know  what  is  printed,  if 
we  desire  to  know  what  is  going  on.  Opinion  weighs 
with  so  vast  a weight  in  the  balance  of  events,  that 
ideas  of  no  value  in  themselves  are  of  importance  from 
the  mere  circumstance  that  they  are  ideas,  and  have  a 
bond  fide  existence  as  such  anywhere  out  of  Bedlam. 


CIVILIZATION 


151 


The  world,  in  consequence,  gorges  itself  with  intel- 
lectual food,  and  in  order  to  swallow  the  more,  bolts 
it.  Nothing  is  now  read  slowly,  or  twice  over.  Books 
are  run  through  with  no  less  rapidity,  and  scarcely 
leave  a more  durable  impression,  than  a newspaper 
article.  It  is  for  this,  among  other  causes,  that  so  few 
books  are  produced  of  any  value.  The  lioness  in  the 
fable  boasted  that  though  she  produced  only  one  at 
a birth,  that  one  was  a lion.  But  if  each  lion  only 
counted  for  one,  and  each  leveret  for  one,  the  advan- 
tage would  all  be  on  the  side  of  the  hare.  When  every 
unit  is  individually  weak,  it  is  only  multitude  that 
tells.  What  wonder  that  the  newspapers  should  carry 
all  before  them  ? A book  produces  hardly  a greater 
effect  than  an  article,  and  there  can  be  365  of  these 
in  one  year.  He,  therefore,  who  should  and  would 
write  a book,  and  write  it  in  the  proper  manner  of 
writing  a book,  now  dashes  down  his  first  hasty 
thoughts,  or  what  he  mistakes  for  thoughts,  in  a 
periodical.  And  the  public  is  in  the  predicament  of  an 
indolent  man,  who  cannot  bring  himself  to  apply  his 
mind  vigorously  to  his  own  affairs,  and  over  whom, 
therefore,  not  he  who  speaks  most  wisely,  but  he  who 
speaks  most  frequently,  obtains  the  influence.”* 

Hence  we  see  that  literature  is  becoming  more  and 
more  ephemeral:  books,  of  any  solidity,  are  almost 
gone  by;  even  reviews  are  not  now  considered  suffi- 
ciently light ; the  attention  cannot  sustain  itself  on 
any  serious  subject,  even  for  the  space  of  a review- 
article.  In  the  more  attractive  kinds  of  literature, 
novels  and  magazines,  though  the  demand  has  so 
greatly  increased,  the  supply  has  so  outstripped  it, 
that  even  a novel  is  seldom  a lucrative  speculation. 
It  is  only  under  circumstances  of  rare  attraction  that 
a bookseller  will  now  give  anything  to  an  author  for 
copyright.  As  the  difficulties  of  success  thus  pro- 
gressively increase,  all  other  ends  are  more  and  more 
sacrificed  for  the  attainment  of  it ; literature  becomes 

* From  a paper  by  the  author,  not  included  in  the  present 
collection. 


152 


CIVILIZATION 


more  and  more  a mere  reflection  of  the  current  senti- 
ments, and  has  almost  entirely  abandoned  its  mission 
as  an  enlightener  and  improver  of  them. 

There  are  now  in  this  country,  we  may  say,  but  two 
modes  left  in  which  an  individual  mind  can  hope  to 
produce  much  direct  effect  upon  the  minds  and  destinies 
of  his  countrymen  generally ; as  a member  of  parlia- 
ment, or  an  editor  of  a London  newspaper.  In  both 
these  capacities  much  may  still  be  done  by  an  indi- 
vidual, because,  while  the  power  of  the  collective  body 
is  very  great,  the  number  of  participants  in  it  does  not 
admit  of  much  increase.  One  of  these  monopolies 
will  be  opened  to  competition  when  the  newspaper 
stamp  is  taken  off ; whereby  the  importance  of  the 
newspaper  press  in  the  aggregate,  considered  as  the 
voice  of  public  opinion,  will  be  increased,  and  the  in- 
fluence of  any  one  writer  in  helping  to  form  that 
opinion  necessarily  diminished.  This  we  might  regret, 
did  we  not  remember  to  what  ends  that  influence  is 
now  used,  and  is  sure  to  be  so  while  newspapers  are  a 
mere  investment  of  capital  for  the  sake  of  mercantile 
profit. 

Is  there,  then,  no  remedy  ? Are  the  decay  of  indi- 
vidual energy,  the  weakening  of  the  influence  of 
superior  minds  over  the  multitude,  the  growth  of  char- 
latanerie,  and  the  diminished  efficacy  of  public  opinion 
as  a restraining  power, — are  these  the  price  we  neces- 
sarily pay  for  the  benefits  of  civilization  ; and  can  they 
only  be  avoided  by  checking  the  diffusion  of  knowledge, 
discouraging  the  spirit  of  combination,  prohibiting 
improvements  in  the  arts  of  life,  and  repressing  the 
further  increase  of  wealth  and  of  production  ? Assuredly 
not.  Those  advantages  which  civilization  cannot  give 
— which  in  its  uncorrected  influence  it  has  even  a 
tendency  to  destroy — may  yet  coexist  with  civilization ; 
and  it  is  only  when  joined  to  civilization  that  they  can 
produce  their  fairest  fruits.  All  that  we  are  in  danger 
of  losing  we  may  preserve,  all  that  we  have  lost  we 
may  regain,  and  bring  to  a perfection  hitherto  unknown ; 


CIVILIZATION 


153 


but  not  by  slumbering,  and  leaving  things  to  them- 
selves, no  more  than  by  ridiculously  trying  our  strength 
against  their  irresistible  tendencies  : only  by  establish- 
ing counter-tendencies,  which  may  combine  with  those 
tendencies  and  modify  them. 

The  evils  are,  that  the  individual  is  lost  and  becomes 
impotent  in  the  crowd,  and  that  individual  character 
itself  becomes  relaxed  and  enervated.  For  the  first 

evil,  the  remedy  is,  greater  and  more  perfect  combina-  — JL 

tion  among  individuals  ; for  the  second,  national  insti- 
tutions of  education,  and  forms  of  polity  calculated  to 
invigorate  the  individual  character. 

The  former  of  these  desiderata,  as  its  attainment 
depends  upon  a change  in  the  habits  of  society  itself, 
can  only  be  realized  by  degrees,  as  the  necessity  be- 
comes felt ; but  circumstances  are  even  now  to  a 
certain  extent  forcing  it  on.  In  Great  Britain  espe- 
cially (which  so  far  surpasses  the  rest  of  the  old  world 
in  the  extent  and  rapidity  of  the  accumulation  of 
wealth)  the  fall  of  profits,  consequent  upon  the  vast 
increase  of  population  and  capital,  is  rapidly  extinguish- 
ing the  class  of  small  dealers  and  small  producers, 
from  the  impossibility  of  living  on  their  diminished 
profits,  and  is  throwing  business  of  all  kinds  more  and 
more  into  the  hands  of  large  capitalists — whether  these 
be  rich  individuals,  or  joint-stock  companies  formed 
by  the  aggregation  of  many  small  capitals.  We  are 
not  among  those  who  believe  that  this  progress  is 
tending  to  the  complete  extinction  of  competition,  or 
that  the  entire  productive  resources  of  the  country 
will  within  any  assignable  number  of  ages,  if  ever,  be 
administered  by,  and  for  the  benefit  of,  a general 
association  of  the  whole  community.  But  we  believe 
that  the  multiplication  of  competitors  in  all  branches 
of  business  and  in  all  professions — which  renders  it 
more  and  more  difficult  to  obtain  success  by  merit 
alone,  more  and  more  easy  to  obtain  it  by  plausible 
pretence — will  find  a limiting  principle  in  the  progress 
of  the  spirit  of  co-operation  ; that  in  every  overcrowded 
department  there  will  arise  a tendency  among  indi- 


154 


CIVILIZATION 


viduals  so  to  unite  their  labour  or  their  capital,  that 
the  purchaser  or  employer  will  have  to  choose,  not 
among  innumerable  individuals,  but  among  a few 
groups.  Competition  will  be  as  active  as  ever,  but 
the  number  of  competitors  will  be  brought  within 
manageable  bounds. 

Such  a spirit  of  co-operation  is  most  of  all  wanted 
among  the  intellectual  classes  and  professions.  The 
amount  of  human  labour,  and  labour  of  the  most 
precious  kind,  now  wasted,  and  wasted  too  in  the 
cruellest  manner,  for  want  of  combination,  is  incal- 
culable. What  a spectacle,  for  instance,  does  the 
medical  profession  present ! One  successful  practi- 
tioner burthened  with  more  work  than  mortal  man 
can  perform,  which  he  performs  so  summarily  that 
it  were  often  better  let  alone  ; — in  the  surrounding 
streets  twenty  unhappy  men,  each  of  whom  has 
been  as  laboriously  and  expensively  trained  as  he  has 
to  do  the  very  same  thing,  and  is  possibly  as  well 
qualified,  wasting  their  capabilities  and  starving  for 
want  of  work.  Under  better  arrangements  these 
twenty  would  form  a corps  of  subalterns  marshalled 
under  their  more  successful  leader ; who  (granting 
him  to  be  really  the  ablest  physician  of  the  set,  and 
not  merely  the  most  successful  impostor)  is  wasting 
time  in  physicking  people  for  headaches  and  heart- 
burns, which  he  might  with  better  economy  of  man- 
kind’s resources  turn  over  to  his  subordinates,  while 
he  employed  his  maturer  powers  and  greater  experi- 
ence in  studying  and  treating  those  more  obscure  and 
difficult  cases  upon  which  science  has  not  yet  thrown 
sufficient  light,  and  to  which  ordinary  knowledge  and 
abilities  would  not  be  adequate.  By  such  means  every 
person’s  capacities  would  be  turned  to  account,  and  the 
highest  minds  being  kept  for  the  highest  things,  these 
would  make  progress,  while  ordinary  occasions  would 
be  no  losers. 

But  it  is  in  literature,  above  all,  that  a change  of 
this  sort  is  of  most  pressing  urgency.  There  the 
system  of  individual  competition  has  fairly  worked 


CIVILIZATION 


155 


itself  out,  and  things  can  hardly  continue  much  longer 
as  they  are.  Literature  is  a province  of  exertion  upon 
which  more,  of  the  first  value  to  human  nature, 
depends,  than  upon  any  other ; a province  in  which 
the  highest  and  most  valuable  order  of  works,  those 
which  most  contribute  to  form  the  opinions  and  shape 
the  characters  of  subsequent  ages,  are,  more  than  in 
any  other  class  of  productions,  placed  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  appreciation  by  those  who  form  the  bulk  of 
the  purchasers  in  the  book-market ; insomuch  that, 
even  in  ages  when  these  were  a far  less  numerous 
and  more  select  class  than  now,  it  was  an  admitted 
point  that  the  only  success  which  writers  of  the 
first  order  could  look  to  was  the  verdict  of  posterity. 
That  verdict  could,  in  those  times,  be  confidently 
expected  b}^  whoever  was  worthy  of  it ; for  the  good 
judges,  though  few  in  number,  were  sure  to  read  every 
work  of  merit  which  appeared ; and  as  the  recollection 
of  one  book  was  not  in  those  days  immediately 
obliterated  by  a hundred  others,  they  remembered  it, 
and  kept  alive  the  knowledge  of  it  to  subsequent  ages. 
But  in  our  day,  from  the  immense  multitude  of  writers 
(which  is  now  not  less  remarkable  than  the  multitude 
of  readers),  and  from  the  manner  in  which  the  people 
of  this  age  are  obliged  to  read,  it  is  difficult  for  what 
does  not  strike  during  its  novelty,  to  strike  at  all : a 
book  either  misses  fire  altogether,  or  is  so  read  as  to 
make  no  permanent  impression  ; and  the  good  equally 
with  the  worthless  are  forgotten  by  the  next  day. 

For  this  there  is  no  remedy,  while  the  public  have 
no  guidance  beyond  booksellers’  advertisements,  and 
the  ill-considered  and  hasty  criticisms  of  newspapers 
and  small  periodicals,  to  direct  them  in  distinguishing 
what  is  not  worth  reading  from  what  is.  The  re- 
source must  in  time  be,  some  organized  co-operation 
among  the  leading  intellects  of  the  age,  whereby 
works  of  first-rate  merit,  of  whatever  class,  and  of 
whatever  tendency  in  point  of  opinion,  might  come 
forth  with  the  stamp  on  them,  from  the  first,  of  the 
approval  of  those  whose  names  would  carry  authority. 


156 


CIVILIZATION 


There  are  many  causes  why  we  must  wait  long  for 
such  a combination ; but  (with  enormous  defects,  both 
in  plan  and  in  execution)  the  Society  for  the  Diffusion 
of  Useful  Knowledge  was  as  considerable  a step 
towards  it,  as  could  be  expected  in  the  present  state  of 
men’s  minds,  and  in  a first  attempt.  Literature  has 
had  in  this  country  two  ages ; it  must  now  have  a 
third.  The  age  of  patronage,  as  Johnson  a century 
ago  proclaimed,  is  gone.  The  age  of  booksellers,  it 
has  been  proclaimed  by  Mr.  Carlyle,  has  well-nigh 
died  out.  In  the  first  there  was  nothing  intrinsically 
base,  nor  in  the  second  anything  inherently  inde- 
pendent and  liberal.  Each  has  done  great  things  ; 
both  have  had  their  day.  The  time  is  perhaps  coming 
when  authors,  as  a collective  guild,  will  be  their  own 
patrons  and  their  own  booksellers. 

These  things  must  bide  their  time.  But  the  other 
of  the  two  great  desiderata,  the  regeneration  of  indi- 
vidual character  among  our  lettered  and  opulent 
classes,  by  the  adaptation  to  that  purpose  of  our  in- 
stitutions, and,  above  all,  of  our  educational  insti- 
tutions, is,  an  object  of  more  urgency,  and  for  which 
more  might  be  immediately  accomplished,  if  the  will 
and  the  understanding  were  not  alike  wanting. 

This,  unfortunately,  is  a subject  on  which,  for  the 
inculcation  of  rational  views,  everything  is  yet  to  be 
done  ; for,  all  that  we  would  inculcate,  all  that  we 
deem  of  vital  importance,  all  upon  which  we  conceive 
the  salvation  of  the  next  and  all  future  ages  to  rest, 
has  the  misfortune  to  be  almost  equally  opposed  to 
the  most  popular  doctrines  of  our  own  time,  and  to 
the  prejudices  of  those  who  cherish  the  empty  husk  of 
what  has  descended  from  ancient  times.  We  are  at 
issue  equally  with  the  admirers  of  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge, Eton  and  Westminster,  and  with  the  generality 
of  their  professed  reformers.  We  regard  the  system 
of  those  institutions,  as  administered  for  two  centuries 
past,  with  sentiments  little  short  of  utter  abhorrence. 
But  we  do  not  conceive  that  their  vices  would  be  cured 


CIVILIZATION 


157 


by  bringing  their  studies  into  a closer  connexion  with 
what  it  is  the  fashion  to  term  “the  business  of  the 
world”;  by  dismissing  the  logic  and  classics  which 
are  still  professedly  taught,  to  substitute  modem  lan- 
guages and  experimental  physics.  We  would  have 
classics  and  logic  taught  far  more  really  and  deeply 
than  at  present,  and  we  would  add  to  them  other 
studies  more  alien  than  any  which  yet  exist  to  the 
4 4 business  of  the  world,”  but  more  germane  to  the 
great  business  of  every  rational  being — the  strengthen- 
ing and  enlarging  of  his  own  intellect  and  character. 
The  empirical  knowledge  which  the  world  demands, 
which  is  the  stock-in-trade  of  money-getting  life,  we 
would  leave  the  world  to  provide  for  itself ; content 
with  infusing  into  the  youth  of  our  country  a spirit, 
and  training  them  to  habits,  which  would  ensure  their 
acquiring  such  knowledge  easily,  and  using  it  well. 
These,  we  know,  are  not  the  sentiments  of  the  vulgar  ; 
but  we  believe  them  to  be  those  of  the  best  and  wisest 
of  all  parties  : and  we  are  glad  to  corroborate  our 
opinion  by  a quotation  from  a work  written  by  a friend 
to  the  Universities,  and  by  one  whose  tendencies  are 
rather  Conservative  than  Liberal,  a book  which,  though 
really,  and  not  in  form  merely,  one  of  fiction,  contains 
much  subtle  and  ingenious  thought,  and  the  results 
of  much  psychological  experience,  combined,  we  are 
compelled  to  say,  with  much  caricature,  and  very  pro- 
voking (though  we  are  convinced  unintentional)  dis- 
tortion and  misinterpretation  of  the  opinions  of  some 
of  those  with  whose  philosophy  that  of  the  author  does 
not  agree. 

444  You  believe’  (a  clergyman  loquitur)  4 that  the  University 
is  to  prepare  youths  for  a successful  career  in  society : I 
believe  the  sole  object  is  to  give  them  that  manly  character 
which  will  enable  them  to  resist  the  influences  of  society. 
I do  not  care  to  prove  that  I am  right,  and  that  any  university 
which  does  not  stand  upon  this  basis  will  be  rickety  in  its 
childhood,  and  useless  or  mischievous  in  its  manhood ; I 
care  only  to  assert  that  this  was  the  notion  of  those  who 
founded  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  I fear  that  their  successors 
are  gradually  losing  sight  of  this  principle — are  gradually 


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beginning  to  think  that  it  is  their  business  to  turn  out  clever 
lawyers  and  serviceable  Treasury  clerks — are  pleased  when 
the  world  compliments  them  upon  the  goodness  of  the  article 
with  which  they  have  furnished  it — and  that  this  low  vanity 
is  absorbing  all  their  will  and  their  power  to  create  great 
men,  whom  the  age  will  scorn,  and  who  will  save  it  from  the 
scorn  of  the  times  to  come.’ 

“ 4 One  or  two  such  men,’  said  the  Liberal,  4 in  a generation, 
may  be  very  useful ; but  the  University  gives  us  two  or  three 
thousand  youths  every  year.  I suppose  you  are  content  that 
a portion  shall  do  week-day  services.’ 

44 4 1 wish  to  have  a far  more  hard-working  and  active  race 
than  we  have  at  present,’  said  the  clergyman  ; 4 men  more 
persevering  in  toil,  and  less  impatient  of  reward ; but  all 
experience,  a thing  which  the  schools  are  not  privileged  to 
despise,  though  the  world  is — all  experience  is  against  the 
notion,  that  the  means  to  procure  a supply  of  good  ordinary 
men  is  to  attempt  nothing  higher.  I know  that  nine-tenths 
of  those  whom  the  University  sends  out  must  be  hewers  of 
wood  and  drawers  of  water;  but,  if  I train  the  ten-tenths  to 
be  so,  depend  upon  it  the  wood  will  be  badly  cut,  the  water 
will  be  spilt.  Aim  at  something  noble ; make  your  system 
such  that  a great  man  may  be  formed  by  it,  and  there  will  be 
a manhood  in  your  little  men  of  which  you  do  not  dream. 
But  when  some  skilful  rhetorician,  or  lucky  rat,  stands  at 
the  top  of  the  ladder — when  the  University,  instead  of  dis- 
claiming the  creature,  instead  of  pleading,  as  an  excuse  for 
themselves,  that  the  healthiest  mother  may,  by  accident, 
produce  a shapeless  abortion,  stands  shouting,  that  the  world 
may  know  what  great  things  they  can  do,  44  We  taught  the 
boy!” — when  the  hatred  which  worldly  men  will  bear  to 
religion  always,  and  to  learning  whenever  it  teaches  us  to 
soar  and  not  to  grovel,  is  met,  not  with  a frank  defiance,  but 
rather  with  a deceitful  argument  to  show  that  trade  is  the 
better  for  them ; is  it  wonderful  that  a puny  beggarly  feeling 
should  pervade  the  mass  of  our  young  men  ? that  they  should 
scorn  all  noble  achievements,  should  have  no  higher  standard 
of  action  than  the  world’s  opinion,  and  should  conceive  of  no 
higher  reward  than  to  sit  down  amidst  loud  cheering,  which 
continues  for  several  moments  ?’  ” * 

Nothing  can  be  more  just  or  more  forcible  than  the 
description  here  given  of  the  objects  which  University 
education  should  aim  at : we  are  at  issue  with  the 
writer,  only  on  the  proposition  that  these  objects  ever 

* From  the  novel  of  Eustace  Conway , attributed  to  Mr. 
Maurice. 


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159 


were  attained,  or  ever  could  be  so,  consistently  with 
the  principle  which  has  always  been  the  foundation  of 
the  English  Universities  ; a principle,  unfortunately* 
by  no  means  confined  to  them.  The  difficulty  which 
continues  to  oppose  either  such  reform  of  our  old 
academical  institutions,  or  the  establishment  of  such 
new  ones,  as  shall  give  us  an  education  capable  of 
forming  great  minds,  is,  that  in  order  to  do  so  it  is 
necessary  to  begin  by  eradicating  the  idea  which  nearly 
all  the  upholders  and  nearly  all  the  impugners  of  the 
Universities  rootedly  entertain,  as  to  the  objects  not 
merely  of  academical  education,  but  of  education  itself. 
What  is  this  idea  ? That  the  object  of  education  is, 
not  to  qualify  the  pupil  for  judging  what  is  true  or 
what  is  right,  but  to  provide  that  he  shall  think  true 
what  we  think  true,  and  right  what  we  think  right — 
that  to  teach,  means  to  inculcate  our  own  opinions,  and 
that  our  business  is  not  to  make  thinkers  or  inquirers, 
but  disciples.  This  is  the  deep-seated  error,  the  in- 
veterate prejudice,  which  the  real  reformer  of  English 
education  has  to  struggle  against.  Is  it  astonishing 
that  great  minds  are  not  produced,  in  a country  where 
the  test  of  a great  mind  is,  agreeing  in  the  opinions  of 
the  small  minds  ? where  every  institution  for  spiritual 
culture  which  the  country  has — the.  Church,  the  Uni- 
versities, and  almost  every  dissenting  community — 
are  constituted  on  the  following  as  their  avowed  prin- 
ciple : that  the  object  is,  not  that  the  individual  should 
go  forth  determined  and  qualified  to  seek  truth 
ardently,  vigorously,  and  disinterestedly ; not  that  he 
be  furnished  at  setting  out  with  the  needful  aids  and 
facilities,  the  needful  materials  and  instruments  for  that 
search,  and  then  left  to  the  unshackled  use  of  them ; 
not  that,  by  a free  communion  with  the  thoughts  and 
deeds  of  the  great  minds  which  preceded  him,  he  be 
inspired  at  once  with  the  courage  to  dare  all  which 
truth  and  conscience  require,  and  the  modesty  to  weigh 
well  the  grounds  of  what  others  think,  before  adopt- 
ing contrary  opinions  of  his  own  : not  this — no ; but 
that  the  triumph  of  the  system,  the  merit,  the  excel- 


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lence  in  the  sight  of  God  which  it  possesses,  or  which 
it  can  impart  to  its  pupil,  is,  that  his  speculations  shall 
terminate  invfche  adoption,  in  words,  of  a particular  set 
of  opinions>|  That  provided  he  adhere  to  these  opinions, 
it  matters  little  whether  he  receive  them  from  authority 
or  from  examination  ; and  worse,  that  it  matters  little 
by  what  temptations  of  interest  or  vanity,  by  what 
voluntary  or  involuntary  sophistication  with  his  intel- 
lect, and  deadening  of  his  noblest  feelings,  that  result 
is  arrived  at ; that  it  even  matters  comparatively  little 
whether  to  his  mind  the  words  are  mere  words,  or  the 
representatives  of  realities — in  what  sense  he  receives 
the  favoured  set  of  propositions,  or  whether  he  attaches 
to  them  any  sense  at  all.  Were  ever  great  minds  thus 
formed  ? Never.  The  few  great  minds  which  this 
country  has  produced  have  been  formed  in  spite  of 
nearly  everything  which  could  be  done  to  stifle  their 
growth.  And  all  thinkers,  much  above  the  common 
order,  who  have  grown  up  in  the  Church  of  England, 
or  in  any  other  Church,  have  been  produced  in  latitu- 
dinarian  epochs,  or  while  the  impulse  of  intellectual 
emancipation  which  gave  existence  to  the  Church  had 
not  quite  spent  itself.  The  flood  of  burning  metal 
which  issued  from  the  furnace,  flowed  on  a few  paces 
before  it  congealed. 

That  the  English  Universities  have,  throughout, 
proceeded  on  the  principle,  that  the  intellectual  asso- 
ciation of  mankind  must  be  founded  upon  articles,  i.e ., 
upon  a promise  of  belief  in  certain  opinions  ; that  the 
scope  of  all  they  do  is  to  prevail  upon  their  pupils,  by 
fair  means  or  foul,  to  acquiesce  in  the  opinions  which 
are  set  down  for  them  ; that  the  abuse  of  the  human 
faculties  so  forcibly  denounced  by  Locke  under  the 
name  of  “ principling  ” their  pupils,  is  their  sole  method 
in  religion,  politics,  morality,  or  philosophy — is  vicious 
indeed,  but  the  vice  is  equally  prevalent  without  and 
within  their  pale,  and  is  no  farther  disgraceful  to  them 
than  inasmuch  as  a better  doctrine  has  been  taught  for 
a century  past  by  the  superior  spirits,  with  whom  in 
point  of  intelligence  it  wTas  their  duty  to  maintain 


CIVILIZATION 


161 


themselves  on  a level.  But,  that  when  this  object  was 
attained  they  cared  for  no  other ; that  if  they  could 
make  churchmen,  they  cared  not  to  make  religious 
men  ; that  if  they  could  make  Tories,  whether  they 
made  patriots  was  indifferent  to  them  ; that  if  they 
could  prevent  heresy,  they  cared  not  if  the  price  paid 
were  stupidity — this  constitutes  the  peculiar  baseness 
of  those  bodies.  Look  at  them.  While  their  sectarian 
character,  while  the  exclusion  of  all  who  will  not  sign 
away  their  freedom  of  thought,  is  contended  for  as  if 
life  depended  upon  it,  there  is  hardly  a trace  in  the 
system  of  the  Universities  that  any  other  object  what- 
ever is  seriously  cared  for.  Nearly  all  the  professor- 
ships have  degenerated  into  sinecures.  Few  of  the 
professors  ever  deliver  a lecture.  One  of  the  few  great 
scholars  who  have  issued  from  either  University  for  a 
century  (and  he  was  such  before  he  went  thither),  the 
Rev.  Connop  Thirlwall,  has  published  to  the  world 
that  in  his  University  at  least,  even  theology — even 
Church  of  England  theology — is  not  taught ; and  his 
dismissal,  for  this  piece  of  honesty,  from  the  tutorship 
of  his  college,  is  one  among  the  daily  proofs  how  much 
safer  it  is  for  twenty  men  to  neglect  their  duty,  than 
for  one  man  to  impeach  them  of  the  neglect.  The 
only  studies  really  encouraged  are  classics  and  mathe- 
matics ; neither  of  them  a useless  study,  though  the 
last,  as  an  exclusive  instrument  for  fashioning  the 
mental  powers,  greatly  overrated ; but  Mr.  Whewell, 
a high  authority  against  his  own  University,  has  pub- 
lished a pamphlet,  chiefly  to  prove  that  the  kind  of 
mathematical  attainment  by  which  Cambridge  honours 
are  gained,  expertness  in  the  use  of  the  calculus,  is  not 
that  kind  which  has  any  tendency  to  produce  superiority 
of  intellect.*  The  mere  shell  and  husk  of  the  syllo- 

* The  erudite  and  able  writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Bevieio 
[Sir  William  Hamilton],  who  has  expended  an  almost  super- 
fluous weight  of  argument  and  authority  in  combating  the 
position  incidentally  maintained  in  Mr.  Whewell’s  pamphlet, 
of  the  great  value  of  mathematics  as  an  exercise  of  the  mind, 
was,  we  think,  bound  to  have  noticed  the  fact  that  the  far 

11 


162 


CIVILIZATION 


gistic  logic  at  the  one  University,  the  wretchedest 
smattering  of  Locke  and  Paley  at  the  other,  are  all  of 
moral  or  psychological  science  that  is  taught  at  either.* * 
As  a means  of  educating  the  many,  the  Universities  are 
absolutely  null.  The  youth  of  England  are  not  edu- 
cated. The  attainments  of  any  kind  required  for 
taking  all  the  degrees  conferred  by  these  bodies  are, 
at  Cambridge,  utterly  contemptible;  at  Oxford,  we 
believe,  of  late  years,  somewhat  higher,  but  still  very 
low.  Honours,  indeed,  are  not  gained  but  by  a severe 
struggle  ; and  if  even  the  candidates  for  honours  were 
mentally  benefited,  the  system  would  not  be  worthless. 
But  what  have  the  senior  wranglers  done,  even  in 
mathematics  ? Has  Cambridge  produced,  since  New- 
ton, one  great  mathematical  genius  ? We  do  not  say 
an  Euler,  a Laplace,  or  a Lagrange,  but  such  as  France 
has  produced  a score  of  during  the  same  period.  How 
many  books  which  have  thrown  light  upon  the  history, 
antiquities,  philosophy,  art,  or  literature  of  the  ancients,  t 
have  the  two  Universities  sent  forth  since  the  Reforma-  i 
tion  ? Compare  them,  not  merely  with  Germany,  but 
even  with  Italy  or  France.  When  a man  is  pro- 
nounced by  them  to  have  excelled  in  his  studies,  what 
do  the  Universities  do  ? They  give  him  an  income, 
not  for  continuing  to  learn,  but  for  having  learnt ; not 
for  doing  anything,  but  for  what  he  has  already  done  : 
on  condition  solely  of  living  like  a monk,  and  putting 
on  the  livery  of  the  Church  at  the  end  of  seven  years.  j 


more  direct  object  of  the  pamphlet  was  one  which  partially' 
coincided  with  that  of  its  reviewer.  We  do  not  think  that  Mr. 
Whewell  has  done  well  what  he  undertook:  he  is  vague,  and; 
is  always  attempting  to  be  a profounder  metaphysician  than 
he  can  be  ; but  the  main  proposition  of  his  pamphlet  is  true 
and  important,  and  he  is  entitled  to  no  little  credit  for 
having  discerned  that  important  truth,  and  expressed  it  so 
strongly, 

* We  should  except,  at  Oxford,  the  Ethics,  Politics,  and 
Rhetoric  of  Aristotle.  These  are  part  of  the  course  of  classi- 
cal instruction,  and  are  so  far  an  exception  to  the  rule, 
otherwise  pretty  faithfully  observed  at  both  Universities,  of 
cultivating  only  the  least  useful  parts  of  ancient  literature. 


CIVILIZATION 


163 


They  bribe  men  by  high  rewards  to  get  their  arms 
ready,  but  do  not  require  them  to  fight.* 

Are  these  the  places  of  education  which  are  to 
send  forth  minds  capable  of  maintaining  a victorious 
struggle  with  the  debilitating  influences  of  the  age* 
and  strengthening  the  weak  side  of  Civilization  by  the 
support  of  a higher  Cultivation  ? This,  however,  is 
what  we  require  from  these  institutions ; or,  in  their 
default,  from  others  which  should  take  their  place. 
And  the  very  first  step  towards  their  reform  should 
be  to  unsectarianize  them  wholly — not  by  the  paltry 
measure  of  allowing  Dissenters  to  come  and  be  taught 
orthodox  sectarianism,  but  by  putting  an  end  to  sec- 
tarian teaching  altogether.  The  principle  itself  of 
dogmatic  religion,  dogmatic  morality,  dogmatic  philo- 
sophy, is  what  requires  to  be  rooted  out ; not  any 
particular  manifestation  of  that  principle. 

The  very  corner-stone  of  an  education  intended  to 
form  great  minds,  'must  be  the  recognition  of  the 
principle,  that  the  object  is  to  call  forth  the  greatest 
possible  quantity  of  intellectual  power,  and  to  inspire 
the  intensest  love  of  truth  ; and  this  without  a particle 
of  regard  to  the  results  to  which  the  exercise  of  that 
power  may  lead,  even  though  it  should  conduct  the 
pupil  to  opinions  diametrically  opposite  to  those  of 
his  teachers.  We  say  this,  not  because  we  think 
opinions  unimportant,  but  because  of  the  immense 
importance  which  we  attach  to  them ; for  in  propor- 
tion to  the  degree  of  intellectual  power  and  love  of 
truth  which  we  succeed  in  creating,  is  the  certainty 
that  (whatever  may  happen  in  any  one  particular 
instance)  in  the  aggregate  of  instances  true  opinions 
will  be  the  result ; and  intellectual  power  and  practical 

* Much  of  what  is  here  said  of  the  Universities,  has,  in  a 
great  measure,  ceased  to  be  true.  The  Legislature  has  at  last 
asserted  its  right  of  interference ; and  even  before  it  did  so, 
the  bodies  had  already  entered  into  a course  of  as  decided 
improvement  as  any  other  English  institutions.  But  I leave 
these  pages  unaltered,  as  matter  of  historical  record,  and  as 
an  illustration  of  tendencies.  [1859.] 


11—2 


164 


CIVILIZATION 


love  of  truth  are  alike  impossible  where  the  reasoner 
is  shown  his  conclusions,  and  informed  beforehand 
that  he  is  expected  to  arrive  at  them. 

We  are  not  so  absurd  as  to  propose  that  the  teacher 
should  not  set  forth  his  own  opinions  as  the  true  ones, 
and  exert  his  utmost  powers  to  exhibit  their  truth  in 
the  strongest  light.  To  abstain  from  this  would  be 
to  nourish  the  worst  intellectual  habit  of  all,  that  of 
not  finding,  and  not  looking  for,  certainty  in  anything. 
But  the  teacher  himself  should  not  be  held  to  any 
creed ; nor  should  the  question  be  whether  his  own 
opinions  are  the  true  ones,  but  whether  he  is  well 
instructed  in  those  of  other  people,  and  in  enforcing 
his  own,  states  the  arguments  for  all  conflicting  opinions 
fairly.  In  this  spirit  it  is  that  all  the  great  subjects 
are  taught  from  the  chairs  of  the  German  and  French 
Universities.  As  a general  rule,  the  most  distinguished 
teacher  is  selected,  whatever  be  his  particular  views, 
and  he  consequently  teaches  in  the  spirit  of  free 
inquiry,  not  of  dogmatic  imposition. 

Such  is  the  principle  of  all  academical  instruction 
which  aims  at  forming  great  minds.  The  details 
cannot  be  too  various  and  comprehensive.  Ancient 
literature  would  fill  a large  place  in  such  a course  of 
instruction  ; because  it  brings  before  us  the  thoughts 
and  actions  of  many  great  minds,  minds  of  many 
various  orders  of  greatness,  and  these  related  and 
exhibited  in  a manner  tenfold  more  impressive,  ten- 
fold more  calculated  to  call  forth  high  aspirations, 
than  in  any  modern  literature.  Imperfectly  as  these 
impressions  are  made  by  the  current  modes  of  classical 
teaching,  it  is  incalculable  what  we  owe  to  this,  the 
sole  ennobling  feature  in  the  slavish,  mechanical  thing 
which  the  moderns  call  education.  Nor  is  it  to  be 
forgotten  among  the  benefits  of  familiarity  with  the 
monuments  of  antiquity,  and  especially  those  of 
Greece,  that  we  are  taught  by  them  to  appreciate  and  to 
admire  intrinsic  greatness,  amidst  opinions,  habits,  and 
institutions  most  remote  from  ours ; and  are  thus 
trained  to  that  large  and  catholic  toleration,  which  is 


CIVILIZATION 


165 


founded  on  understanding,  not  on  indifference — and 
to  a habit  of  free,  open  sympathy  with  powers  of  mind 
and  nobleness  of  character,  howsoever  exemplified. 
Were  but  the  languages  and  literature  of  antiquity  so 
taught  that  the  glorious  images  they  present  might 
stand  before  the  student’s  eyes  as  living  and  glowing 
realities — that,  instead  of  lying  a caput  mortuum  at 
the  bottom  of  his  mind,  like  some  foreign  substance  in 
no  way  influencing  the  current  of  his  thoughts  or  the 
tone  of  his  feelings,  they  might  circulate  through  it, 
and  become  assimilated,  and  be  part  and  parcel  of 
himself ! — then  should  we  see  how  little  these  studies 
have  yet  done  for  us,  compared  with  what  they  have 
yet  to  do. 

An  important  place  in  the  system  of  education 
which  we  contemplate  would  be  occupied  by  history  : 
because  it  is  the  record  of  all  great  things  which  have 
been  achieved  by  mankind,  and  because  when  philo- 
sophically studied  it  gives  a certain  largeness  of  con- 
ception to  the  student,  and  familiarizes  him  with  the 
action  of  great  causes.  In  no  other  way  can  he  so 
completely  realize  in  his  own  mind  (howsoever  he  may 
be  satisfied  with  the  proof  of  them  as  abstract  pro- 
positions) the  great  principles  by  which  the  progress 
of  man  and  the  condition  of  society  are  governed. 
Nowhere  else  will  the  infinite  varieties  of  human 
nature  be  so  vividly  brought  home  to  him,  and  any- 
thing cramped  or  one-sided  in  his  own  standard  of  it 
so  effectually  corrected ; and  nowhere  else  will  he 
behold  so  strongly  exemplified  the  astonishing  pliability 
of  our  nature,  and  the  vast  effects  which  may  under 
good  guidance  be  produced  upon  it  by  honest  endeavour. 
The  literature  of  our  own  and  other  modern  nations 
should  be  studied  along  with  the  history,  or  rather  as 
part  of  the  history. 

In  the  department  of  pure  intellect,  the  highest 
place  will  belong  to  logic  and  the  philosophy  of  mind  : 
the  one,  the  instrument  for  the  cultivation  of  all 
sciences  ; the  other,  the  root  from  which  they  all  grow. 
It  scarcely  needs  be  said  that  the  former  ought  not 


166 


CIVILIZATION 


to  be  taught  as  a mere  system  of  technical  rules,  nor 
the  latter  as  a set  of  concatenated  abstract  propositions. 
The  tendency,  so  strong  everywhere,  is  strongest  of  all 
here,  to  receive  opinions  into  the  mind  without  any 
real  understanding  of  them,  merely  because  they  seem 
to  follow  from  certain  admitted  premises,  and  to  let 
them  lie  there  as  forms  of  words,  lifeless  and  void  of 
meaning.  The  pupil  must  be  led  to  interrogate  his  own 
consciousness,  to  observe  and  experiment  upon  himself  : 
of  the  mind,  by  any  other  process,  little  will  he  ever 
know. 

With  these  should  be  joined  all  those  sciences,  in 
which  great  and  certain  results  are  arrived  at  by  mental 
processes  of  some  length  or  nicety  : not  that  all  persons 
should  study  all  these  sciences,  but  that  some  should 
study  all,  and  all  some.  These  may  be  divided  into 
sciences  of  mere  ratiocination,  as  mathematics  ; and 
sciences  partly  of  ratiocination,  and  partly  of  what  is 
far  more  difficult,  comprehensive  observation  and 
analysis.  Such  are,  in  their  rationale , even  the 
sciences  to  which  mathematical  processes  are  applic- 
able : and  such  are  all  those  which  relate  to  human 
nature.  The  philosophy  of  morals,  of  government,  of 
law,  of  political  economy,  of  poetry  and  art,  should 
form  subjects  of  systematic  instruction,  under  the  most 
eminent  professors  who  could  be  found ; these  being 
chosen,  not  for  the  particular  doctrines  they  might 
happen  to  profess,  but  as  being  those  who  were  most 
likely  to  send  forth  pupils  qualified  in  point  of  dis- 
position and  attainments  to  choose  doctrines  for  them- 
selves. And  why  should  not  religion  be  taught  in  the 
same  manner  ? Not  until  then  will  one  step  be  made 
towards  the  healing  of  religious  differences  : not  until 
then  will  the  spirit  of  English  religion  become  catholic 
instead  of  sectarian,  favourable  instead  of  hostile  to 
freedom  of  thought  and  the  progress  of  the  human 
mind. 

With  regard  to  the  changes,  in  forms  of  polity  and 
social  arrangements,  which,  in  addition  to  reforms  in 


CIVILIZATION 


167 


education,  we  conceive  to  be  required  for  regenerating 
the  character  of  the  higher  classes ; to  express  them 
even  summarily  would  require  a long  discourse.  But 
the  general  idea  from  which  they  all  emanate,  may  be 
stated  briefly.  Civilization  has  brought  about  a degree 
of  security  and  fixity  in  the  possession  of  all  advantages 
once  acquired,  which  has  rendered  it  possible  for  a rich 
man  to  lead  the  life  of  a Sybarite,  and  nevertheless 
enjoy  throughout  life  a degree  of  power  and  considera- 
tion which  could  formerly  be  earned  or  retained  only 
by  personal  activity.  We  cannot  undo  what  civilization 
has  done,  and  again  stimulate  the  energy  of  the  higher 
classes  by  insecurity  of  property,  or  danger  of  life  or 
limb.  The  only  adventitious  motive  it  is  in  the  power 
of  society  to  hold  out,  is  reputation  and  consequence ; 
and  of  this  as  much  use  as  possible  should  be  made 
for  the  encouragement  of  desert.  The  main  thing 
which  social  changes  can  do  for  the  improvement 
of  the  higher  classes — and  it  is  what  the  progress  of 
democracy  is  insensibly  but  certainly  accomplishing — 
is  gradually  to  put  an  end  to  every  kind  of  unearned 
distinction,  and  let  the  only  road  open  to  honour  and 
ascendancy  be  that  of  personal  qualities. 


APHORISMS* 


A FRAGMENT 

There  are  two  kinds  of  wisdom  : in  the  one,  every 
age  in  which  science  flourishes,  surpasses,  or  ought 
to  surpass,  its  predecessors  ; of  the  other,  there  is 
nearly  an  equal  amount  in  all  ages.  The  first  is  the 
wisdom  which  depends  on  long  chains  of  reasoning,  a 
comprehensive  survey  of  the  whole  of  a great  subject 
at  once,  or  complicated  and  subtle  processes  of  meta- 
physical analysis  : this  is  properly  Philosophy.  The 
other  is  that  acquired  by  experience  of  life,  and  a good 
use  of  the  opportunities  possessed  by  all  who  have 
mingled  much  with  the  world,  or  who  have  a large 
share  of  human  nature  in  their  own  breasts.  This 
unsystematic  wisdom,  drawn  by  acute  minds  in  all 
periods  of  history  from  their  personal  experience,  is 
properly  termed  the  wisdom  of  ages ; and  every 
lettered  age  has  left  a portion  of  it  upon  record.  It 
is  nowhere  more  genuine  than  in  the  old  fabulists, 
iEsop  and  others.  The  speeches  in  Thucydides  are 
among  the  most  remarkable  specimens  of  it.  Aristotle 
and  Quintilian  have  worked  up  rich  stores  of  it  into 
their  systematic  writings  ; nor  ought  Horace’s  Satires , 
and  especially  his  Epistles , to  be  forgotten.  But  the 
form  in  which  this  kind  of  wisdom  most  naturally 
embodies  itself  is  that  of  aphorisms  : and  such,  from 
the  Proverbs  of  Solomon  to  our  own  day,  is  the  shape 
it  has  oftenest  assumed. 

Some  persons,  who  cannot  be  satisfied  unless  they 
have  the  forms  of  accurate  knowledge  as  well  as  the 
substance,  object  to  aphorisms,  because  they  are  un- 
systematic. These  objectors  forget  that  to  be  un- 

* London  and  Westminster  Review,  January,  1837. 

168 


APHORISMS 


169 


systematic  is  of  the  essence  of  all  truths  which  rest 
on  specific  experiment.  A systematic  treatise  is  the 
most  natural  form  for  delivering  truths  which  grow 
out  of  one  another  ; but  truths,  each  of  which  rests 
on  its  own  independent  evidence,  may  surely  be  exhi- 
bited in  the  same  unconnected  state  in  which  they 
were  discovered.  Philosophy  may  afterwards  trace 
the  connexion  among  these  truths,  detect  the  more 
general  principles  of  which  they  are  manifestations, 
and  so  systematize  the  whole.  But  we  need  not  wait 
till  this  is  done,  before  we  record  them,  and  act  upon 
them.  On  the  contrary,  these  detached  truths  are  at 
once  the  materials  and  the  tests  of  philosophy  itself ; 
since  philosophy  is  not  called  in  to  prove  them,  but 
may  very  justly  be  required  to  account  for  them. 

A more  valid  objection  to  aphorisms,  as  far  as  it 
goes,  is,  that  they  are  very  seldom  exactly  true  ; but 
then  this,  unfortunately,  is  an  objection  to  all  human 
knowledge.  A proverb  or  an  apophthegm — any  pro- 
position epigrammatically  expressed — almost  always 
goes  more  or  less  beyond  the  strict  truth  : the  fact 
which  it  states  is  enunciated  in  a more  unqualified 
manner  than  the  truth  warrants.  But  when  logicians 
have  done  their  best  to  correct  the  proposition  by  just 
modifications  and  limitations,  is  the  case  much  mended  ? 
Very  little.  Every  really  existing  Thing  is  a com- 
pound of  such  innumerable  properties,  and  has  such 
an  infinity  of  relations  with  all  other  things  in  the 
universe,  that  almost  every  law  to  which  it  appears  to 
be  subject,  is  liable  to  be  set  aside  or  frustrated,  either 
by  some  other  law  of  the  same  object,  or  by  the  laws 
of  some  other  object  which  interferes  with  it ; and  as 
no  one  can  possibly  foresee  or  grasp  all  these  contin- 
gencies, much  less  express  them  in  such  an  imperfect 
language  as  that  of  words,  no  one  needs  flatter  himself 
that  he  can  lay  down  propositions  sufficiently  specific 
to  be  available  for  practice,  which  he  may  afterwards 
apply  mechanically  without  any  exercise  of  thought. 
It  is  given  to  no  human  being  to  stereotype  a set  of 
truths,  and  walk  safely  by  their  guidance  with  his 


170 


APHORISMS 


mind’s  eye  closed.  Let  us  envelop  our  proposition 
with  what  exceptions  and  qualifications  we  may,  fresh 
exceptions  will  turn  up,  and  fresh  qualifications  be 
found  necessary,  the  moment  any  one  attempts  to  act 
upon  it.  Not  aphorisms,  therefore,  alone,  but  all 
general  propositions  whatever,  require  to  be  taken  with 
a large  allowance  for  inaccuracy ; and,  we  may  venture 
to  add,  this  allowance  is  much  more  likely  to  be  made, 
when,  the  proposition  being  avowedly  presented  with- 
out any  limitations,  every  one  must  see  that  he  is  left 
to  make  the  limitations  for  himself. 

If  aphorisms  were  less  likely  than  systems  to  have 
truth  in  them,  it  would  be  difficult  to  account  for  the 
fact  that  almost  all  books  of  aphorisms,  which  have 
ever  required  a reputation,  have  retained,  and  deserved 
to  retain  it  ; while,  how  wofully  the  reverse  is  the  case 
with  systems  of  philosophy,  no  student  is  ignorant. 
One  reason  for  this  difference  may  be,  that  books  of 
aphorisms  are  seldom  written  but  by  persons  of 
genius.  There  are,  indeed,  to  be  found  books  like 
Mr.  Colton’s  Lacon — centos  of  trite  truisms  and  trite 
falsisms  pinched  into  epigrams.  But,  on  the  whole, 
he  who  draws  his  thoughts  (as  Coleridge  says)  from  a 
cistern  and  not  from  a spring,  will  generally  be  more 
sparing  of  them  than  to  give  ten  ideas  in  a page 
instead  of  ten  pages  to  an  idea.  And  where  there  is 
originality  in  aphorisms,  there  is  generally  truth,  or  a 
bold  approach  to  some  truth  which  really  lies  beneath, 
A scientific  system  is  often  spun  out  of  a few  original 
assumptions,  without  any  intercourse  with  nature  at 
all ; but  he  who  has  generalized  copiously  and  variously 
from  actual  experience  must  have  thrown  aside  so 
many  of  his  first  generalizations  as  he  went  on,  that 
the  residuum  can  hardly  be  altogether  worthless. 

Of  books  of  aphorisms,  written  by  men  of  genius, 
the  Pensees  of  Pascal  is  perhaps  the  least  valuable  in 
comparison  with  its  reputation  ; but  even  this,  in  so 
far  as  it  is  aphoristic,  is  acute  and  profound  : it  fails 
when  it  is  perverted  by  the  author’s  systematic  views 
on  religion.  La  Rochefoucauld,  again,  has  been  in- 


APHORISMS 


171 


veighed  against  as  a “libeller  of  human  nature,”  etc., 
chiefly  from  not  understanding  his  drift.  His  Maximes 
are  a series  of  delineations,  by  a most  penetrating 
observer,  of  the  workings  of  habitual  selfishness  in  the 
human  breast ; and  they  are  true  to  the  letter,  of  all 
thoroughly  selfish  persons,  and  of  all  other  persons  in 
proportion  as  they  are  selfish.  A man  of  a warmer 
sympathy  with  mankind  would  indeed  have  enunciated 
his  propositions  in  less  sweeping  terms  ; not  that  there 
was  anv  fear  of  leading  the  world  into  the  mistake 
that  there  was  neither  virtue  nor  feeling  in  it  ; but 
because  a generous  spirit  could  not  have  borne  to  chain 
itself  down  to  the  contemplation  of  littleness  and  mean- 
ness, unless  for  the  express  purpose  of  showing  to  others 
against  what  degrading  influences,  and  in  what  an 
ungenial  atmosphere,  it  was  possible  to  maintain 
elevation  of  feeling  and  nobleness  of  conduct.  The 
error  of  La  Rochefoucauld  has  been  avoided  by 
Chamfort,  the  more  high-minded  and  more  philo- 
sophic La  Rochefoucauld  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
In  his  posthumous  work,  the  Pensees , Maximes , 
Garacteres  et  Anecdotes  (a  book  which,  to  its  other 
merits,  adds  that  of  being  one  of  the  best  collections 
of  bons  mots  in  existence),  he  lays  open  the  basest 
parts  of  vulgar  human  nature,  with  as  keen  an  instru- 
ment and  as  unshrinking  a hand  as  his  precursor  ; but 
not  with  that  cool  indifference  of  manner,  like  a man 
who  is  only  thinking  of  saying  clever  things  ; he  does 
it  with  the  concentrated  bitterness  of  one  whose,  own 
life  has  been  made  valueless  to  him  by  having  his  lot 
cast  among  these  basenesses,  and  whose  sole  consola- 
tion is  in  the  thought  that  human  nature  is  not  the 
wretched  thing  it  appears,  and  that  in  better  circum- 
stances it  will  produce  better  things.  Nor  does  . he 
ever  leave  his  reader,  for  long  together,  without  being 
reminded  that  he  is  speaking,  not  of  what  might  be, 
but  of  what  now  is. 


ARMAND  CARREL* 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES  BY  MM.  NISARD  AND  LITTRE 

These  little  works  are  the  tribute  paid  by  two  dis- 
tinguished writers  to  one  whose  memory,  though  he 
was  but  shown  to  the  world,  the  world  will  not,  and 
must  not  be  suffered  to  let  die.  Cut  off  at  the  age, 
of  thirty-six  by  that  union  of  misfortune  and  fault 
( schicksal  und  eigene  scliuld)  to  which  it  has  been 
asserted  that  all  human  miscarriages  are  imputable,’ 
he  lived  long  enough  to  show  that  he  was  one  of  the, 
few,  never  so  few  as  in  these  latter  times,  who  seem 
raised  up  to  turn  the  balance  of  events  at  some  trying 
moment  in  the  history  of  nations,  and  to  have  or  to  • 
want  whom,  at  critical  periods,  is  the  salvation  or  the 
destruction  of  an  era. 

We  seize  the  opportunity  to  contribute  what  we  can, 
as  well  from  our  own  knowledge  as  from  the  materials 
supplied  by  MM.  Nisard  and  Littre,  towards  a true 
picture  of  a man,  more  worthy  to  be  known,  and  more 
fit  to  be  imitated,  than  any  who  has  occupied  a position 
in  European  politics  for  many  years.  It  has  not  been 
given  to  those  who  knew  Carrel,  to  see  him  in  any  of 
those  situations  of  outward  power  and  honour,  to 
which  he  would  certainly  have  forced  his  way,  and 
which,  instead  of  being  honours  to  him , it  was  reserved 
for  him  perhaps  to  rescue  from  ignominy.  The  man 
whom  not  only  his  friends  but  his  enemies,  and  all 
France,  would  have  proclaimed  President  or  Prime 
Minister  with  one  voice,  if  any  of  the  changes  of  this 
changeable  time  had  again  given  ascendancy  to  the 
people’s  side,  is  gone  ; and  his  place  is  not  likely  to  be 
again  filled  in  our  time.  But  there  is  left  to  us  his 

* London  and  Westminster  Review,  October,  1837. 

172 


ARMAND  CARREL 


173 


memory,  and  his  example.  We  can  still  remember 
and  meditate  on  what  he  was,  how  much  and  under 
bow  great  disadvantages  he  accomplished,  and  what 
be  would  have  been.  We  can  learn  from  the  study  of 
bim,  what  we  all,  but  especially  those  of  kindred  prin- 
ciples and  aspirations,  must  be,  if  we  would  make 
;hose  principles  effectual  for  good,  those  aspirations 
realities,  and  not  the  mere  dreams  of  an  idle  and 
self-conceited  imagination. 

Who,  then,  and  what  was  Armand  Carrel?  “An 
editor  of  a republican  newspaper,”  exclaims  some 
English  Tory,  in  a voice  in  which  it  is  doubtful 
vhether  the  word  “republican”  or  “ newspaper”  is 
ittered  in  the  most  scornful  intonation.  Carrel  was 
;he  editor  of  a republican  newspaper  : his  glory  con- 
sists precisely  in  this,  that  being  that,  and  by  being 
;hat,  he  was  the  greatest  political  leader  of  his  time. 
\.nd  we  do  not  mean  by  a political  leader  one  who 
?an  create  and  keep  together  a political  party,  or  who 
'an  give  it  importance  in  the  State,  or  even  who  can 
make  it  deserve  importance,  but  who  can  do  any  and 
every.  one  of  all  these,  and  do  them  with  an  easy 
superiority  of  genius  and  character,  which  renders 
competition  hopeless.  Such  was  Carrel.  Ripened  by 
fears  and  favoured  by  opportunity,  he  might  have 
been  the  Mirabeau  or  the  Washington  of  his  age,  or 
both  in  one. 

The  life  of  Carrel  may  be  written  in  a few  sen- 
tences. “Armand  Carrel,”  says  M.  Littre,  “was  a 
sub-lieutenant  and  a journalist  : in  that  narrow  circle 
was  included  the  life  of  a man  who,  dying  in  the 
flower  of  youth,  leaves  a name  known  to  all  France, 
a-nd  lamented  even  by  his  political  enemies.  His 
celebrity  came  not  from  the  favour  of  governments, 
nor  from  those  elevated  functions  which  give  an  easy 
Dpportunity  of  acquiring  distinction,  or,  at  the  least, 
notoriety.  Implicated  in  the  conspiracies  against  the 
Restoration,  an  officer  in  the  service  of  the  Spanish 
Constitution,  taken  prisoner  in  Catalonia  and  con- 
lernned  to  death ; bold  in  the  opposition  before  the 


174 


ABM  AND  CABBEL 


July  Bevolution,  still  bolder  after  it ; he  was  alwayp 
left  to  his  own  resources,  so  as  never  to  pass  for  more 
than  his  intrinsic  worth : no  borrowed  lustre  was  ever 
shed  on  him  ; he  had  no  station  but  that  which  he 
created  for  himself.  Fortune,  the  inexplicable  chance 
which  distributes  cannon-balls  in  a battle,  and  which 
has  so  large  a dominion  in  human  affairs,  did  little  or 
nothing  for  him  ; he  had  no  ‘ star,’  no  ‘ run  of  luck 
and  no  one  ever  was  less  the  product  of  favourable 
circumstances  : he  sought  them  not,  and  they  cam  £ 
not.  Force  of  character  in  difficult  times,  admirable 
talents  as  a writer  at  all  times,  nobleness  of  soul 
towards  friends  and  enemies ; these  were  what  sus- 
tained him,  and  gave  him  in  all  quarters  and  in  all 
times,  not  only  an  elevated  place  in  the  esteem  of 
men,  but  an  ascendancy  over  them.” 

Thus  far  M.  Littre,  a man  who  does  not  cast  his 
words  at  random — a witness,  whose  opinions  indeed 
are  those  of  Carrel,  but  whose  life  is  devoted  to  other 
pursuits  than  politics,  and  whose  simplicity  and  purity 
of  character,  esteemed  by  men  who  do  not  share  his 
opinions,  peculiarly  qualified  him  to  declare  of  Carrel 
that  which  the  best  men  in  France,  of  whatever  party 
or  shade  of  opinion,  feel.  M.  Nisard,  the  representative 
of  a much  fainter  shade  of  liberalism  than  M.  Littre,' 
does  but  fill  up  the  same  outline  with  greater  richness 
of  detail,  with  the  addition  of  many  interesting  traits  of 
personal  character,  and  with  a more  analytical  phil- 
osophy. From  the  two  together  we  have  learned  th^ 
facts  of  the  early  life  of  Carrel,  and  many  particulars 
of  his  habits  and  disposition,  which  could  be  know^ 
only  to  familiar  companions.  On  the  great  features 
which  make  up  a character,  they  show  us  almost 
nothing  in  Carrel  which  we  had  not  ourselves  seen  in 
him  : but,  in  what  they  have  communicated,  we  find 
all  those  details  which  justify  our  general  idea ; and 
their  recollections  bear  to  our  own  the  natural  relation 
between  likenesses  of  the  same  figure  taken  from 
different  points.  We  can  therefore,  with  increased 
confidence,  attempt  to  describe  what  Carrel  was ; what 


ARMANH  CARREL  175 

the  world  has  lost  in  him,  and  in  what  it  may  profit 
by  his  example. 

The  circumstance  most  worthy  of  commemoration 
in  Carrel  is  not  that  he  was  an  unblemished  patriot 
in  a time  of  general  political  corruption  ; others  have 
been  that,  others  are  so  even  at  present.  Nor  is  it 
that  he  was  the  first  political  writer  of  his  time  : he 
could  not  have  been  this,  if  he  had  not  been  something 
to  which  his  character  as  a writer  was  merely  sub- 
sidiary. There  are  no  great  writers  but  those  whose 
qualities  as  writers  are  built  upon  their  qualities  as 
human  beings — are  the  mere  manifestation  and  ex- 
pression of  those  qualities  : all  besides  is  hollow  and 
meretricious,  and  if  a writer  who  assumes  a style  for 
the  sake  of  style,  ever  acquires  a place  in  literature,  it 
is  in  so  far  as  he  assumes  the  style  of  those  whose 
style  is  not  assumed;  of  those  to  whom  language 
altogether  is  but  the  utterance  of  their  feelings,  or  the 
means  to  their  practical  ends. 

Carrel  was  one  of  these  ; and  it  may  even  be  said 
that  being  a writer  was  to  him  merely  an  accident. 
He  was  neither  by  character  nor  by  preference  a man 
of  speculation  and  discussion,  for  whom  the  press,  if 
still  but  a means,  is  the  best  and  often  the  sole  means 
of  fulfilling  his  vocation.  The  career  of  an  adminis- 
trator or  that  of  a military  commander  would  have 
been  more  to  Carrel’s  taste,  and  in  either  of  them 
he  would  probably  have  excelled.  The  true  idea  of 
Carrel  is  not  that  of  a literary  man,  but  of  a man  of 
action,  using  the  press  as  his  instrument ; and  in  no 
other  aspect  does  his  character  deserve  more  to  be 
studied  by  those  of  all  countries,  who  are  qualified 
to  resemble  him. 

He  was  a man  called  to  take  an  active  part  in  the 
government  of  mankind,  and  needing  an  engine  with 
which  to  move  them.  Had  his  lot  been  cast  in  the 
cabinet  or  in  the  camp,  of  the  cabinet  or  of  the  camp 
he  would  have  made  his  instrument.  Fortune  did  not 
give  him  such  a destiny,  and  his  principles  did  not 
permit  him  the  means  by  which  he  could  have  acquired 


176 


ARMAND  CARREL 


it.  Thus  excluded  from  the  region  of  deeds,  he  had 
still  that  of  words  ; and  words  are  deeds,  and  the  cause 
of  deeds.  Carrel  was  not  the  first  to  see,  but  he  was 
the  first  practically  to  realize,  the  new  destination  of 
the  political  press  in  modern  times.  It  is  now  begin- 
ning to  be  felt  that  journalism  is  to  modern  Europe 
what  political  oratory  was  to  Athens  and  Rome,  and 
that,  to  become  what  it  ought,  it  should  be  wielded  by 
the  same  sort  of  men : Carrel  seized  the  sceptre  of 
journalism,  and  with  that,  as  with  the  baton  of  a 
general-in-chief,  ruled  amidst  innumerable  difficulties 
and  reverses  that  44  fierce  democracy,”  which  he  perhaps 
alone  of  all  men  living,  trampled  upon  and  irritated 
as  it  has  been,  could  have  rendered  at  once  gentle  and 
powerful. 

Such  a position  did  Carrel  occupy,  for  a few  short 
years  in  the  history  of  his  time.  A brief  survey  of 
the  incidents  of  his  career  and  the  circumstances  of 
his  country,  will  show  how  he  acquitted  himself  in 
this  situation.  That  he  committed  no  mistakes  in 
it,  we  are  nowise  concerned  to  prove.  We  may  even, 
with  the  modesty  befitting  a distant  observer,  express 
our  opinion  as  to  what  his  mistakes  were.  But  we 
have  neither  known  nor  read  of  any  man  of  whom  it 
could  be  said  with  assurance  that,  in  Carrel’s  circum- 
stances and  at  his  years,  he  would  have  committed 
fewer  ; and  we  are  certain  that  there  have  been  none 
whose  achievements  would  have  been  greater,  or  whose 
errors  nobler  or  more  nobly  redeemed. 

Carrel  was  the  son  of  a merchant  of  Rouen.  He 
was  intended  for  business,  but  his  early  passion  for  a 
military  career  induced  his  father  (a  decided  royalist) 
to  send  him  to  the  Ecole  Militaire  of  St.  Cyr.  4 4 His 
literary  studies,”  says  M.  Nisard,  44  were  much  neg 
lected.  He  himself  has  told  me  that,  although  one 
of  the  best  scholars  in  capacity,  he  was  one  of  the  most 
moderate  in  attainment.  His  military  predilections 
showed  themselves,  even  at  school,  in  the  choice  of 
his  reading.  His  favourite  authors  were  the  historians, 


ARMAND  CARREL 


177 


especially  where  they  treated  of  military  events.  All 
other  studies  he  was  impatient  of,  and  they  profited 
him  little.  I have  heard  him  say,  however,  that 
Virgil  made  an  impression  on  him,  and  he  has  some- 
times repeated  verses  to  me  which  his  memory  had 
retained  unforgotten,  though  never  again  read.  . . . 
After  leaving  school,  and  while  preparing  for  St.  Cyr, 
he  directed  his  studies  exclusively  to  history  and  the 
strategic  art.  At  St.  Cyr  he  devoted  to  the  same 
occupation  all  the  time  which  the  duties  of  the  place 
allowed  him.”  On  leaving  St.  Cyr  he  entered  the  army 
as  a sub-lieutenant,  the  grade  answering  in  the  French 
army  to  that  of  an  ensign  in  the  English. 

In  this  early  direction  of  the  tastes  and  pursuits  of 
Carrel,  we  may  trace  the  cause  of  almost  his  only 
defects,  and  of  his  greatest  qualities.  From  it  he 
doubtless  derived  the  practicalness  (if  the  word  may 
be  pardoned)  in  which  the  more  purely  speculative 
Frenchmen  of  the  present  day  (constituting  a large 
proportion  of  the  most  accomplished  minds  of  our 
age)  it  may  be  said  without  disrespect  to  them,  are 
generally  deficient ; and  of  which  in  England  we  have 
too  much,  with  but  little  of  the  nobler  quality  which 
in  Carrel  it  served  to  temper  and  rein  in.  It  is  easy 
to  be  practical,  in  a society  all  practical : there  is  a 
practicalness  which  comes  by  nature,  to  those  who 
know  little  and  aspire  to  nothing;  exactly  this  is 
the  sort  which  the  vulgar  form  of  the  English  mind 
exemplifies,  and  which  all  the  English  institutions 
of  education,  whatever  else  they  may  teach,  are 
studiously  conservative  of : but  the  atmosphere  which 
kills  so  much  thought,  sobers  what  it  spares,  and  the 
English  who  think  at  all,  speculating  under  the 
restraining  influence  of  such  a medium,  are  guided 
more  often  than  the  thinkers  of  other  countries  into 
the  practicalness  which,  instead  of  chaining  up  the 
spirit  of  speculation,  lights  its  path  and  makes  safe 
its  footsteps. 

What  is  done  for  the  best  English  thinkers  by  the 
influences  of  the  society  in  which  they  grow  up,  was 

12 


178 


ARMAND  CARREL 


done  for  Carrel  by  the  inestimable  advantage  of  an 
education  and  pursuits  which  had  for  their  object  not 
thinking  or  talking,  but  doing.  He  who  thinks  without 
any  experience  in  action,  or  without  having  action  per- 
petually in  view  ; whose  mind  has  never  had  anything 
to  do  but  to  form  conceptions,  without  ever  measuring 
itself  or  them  with  realities,  may  be  a great  man ; 
thoughts  may  originate  with  him,  for  which  the  world 
may  bless  him  to  the  latest  generations.  There  ought 
to  be  such  men,  for  they  see  many  things  which  even 
wise  and  strong  minds,  which  are  engrossed  with  active 
life,  never  can  be  the  first  to  see.  But  the  man  to 
lead  his  age  is  he  who  has  been  familiar  with  thought 
directed  to  the  accomplishment  of  immediate  objects, 
and  who  has  been  accustomed  to  see  his  theories 
brought  early  and  promptly  to  the  test  of  experiment ; 
the  man  who  has  seen  at  the  end  of  every  theorem 
to  be  investigated,  a problem  to  be  solved  ; who  has 
learned  early  to  weigh  the  means  which  can  be  exerted 
against  the  obstacles  which  are  to  be  overcome,  and 
to  make  an  estimate  of  means  and  of  obstacles  habi- 
tually a part  of  all  his  theories  that  have  for  their 
object  practice,  either  at  the  present  or  at  a more 
distant  period.  This  was  essentially  Carrel’s  distin- 
guishing character  among  the  popular  party  in  his 
own  country ; and  it  is  a side  of  his  character  which, 
naturally  perhaps,  has  hardly  yet  been  enough  appre- 
ciated in  France.  In  it  he  resembled  Napoleon,  who 
had  learnt  it  in  the  same  school,  and  who  by  it  mas- 
tered and  ruled,  as  far  as  so  selfish  a man  could,  his 
country  and  age.  But  Napoleon’s  really  narrow  and 
imperfectly  cultivated  mind,  and  his  peremptory  will, 
turned  aside  contemptuously  from  all  speculation,  and 
all  attempt  to  stand  up  for  speculation,  as  bavardage. 
Carrel,  born  at  a more  fortunate  time,  and  belonging 
to  a generation  whose  best  heads  and  hearts  war  and 
the  guillotine  had  not  swept  away,  had  an  intellect 
capacious  enough  to  appreciate  and  sympathize  with 
whatever  of  truth  and  ultimate  value  to  mankind  there 
might  be  in  all  theories,  together  with  a rootedly 


ARMAND  CARREL 


179 


practical  turn  of  mind,  which  seized  and  appropriated 
to  itself  such  part  only  of  them  as  might  be  realized, 
or  at  least  might  be  hoped  to  be  realized,  in  his  own 
day.  As  with  all  generous  spirits,  his  hopes  some- 
times deceived  him  as  to  what  his  country  was  ripe 
for ; but  a short  experience  always  corrected  his  mis- 
take, and  warned  him  to  point  his  efforts  towards 
some  more  attainable  end. 

Carrell  entered  into  life,  and  into  a military  life,  at  a 
peculiar  period.  By  foreign  force,  and  under  circum- 
stances humiliating  to  the  military  pride  of  the  nation, 
the  Bourbons  had  been  brought  back.  With  them  had 
returned  the  emigrants  with  their  feudal  prejudices,  the 
ultra-Catholics  with  their  bigotry  and  pretensions  to 
priestly  domination.  Louis  XVIII.,  taking  the  advice 
of  Fouche,  though  in  a different  sense  from  that  in 
which  it  was  given,  had  lain  down  in  the  bed  of 
Napoleon,  “ s'etait  couche  dans  les  draps  de  Na- 
poleon ” — had  preserved  that  vast  net-work  of  ad- 
ministrative tyranny  which  did  not  exist  under  the  old 
French  government,  which  the  Convention  created  for 
a temporary  purpose,  and  which  Napoleon  made  per- 
manent ; that  system  of  bureaucracy,  which  leaves  no 
free  agent  in  all  France ; except  the  man  at  Paris  who 
pulls  the  wires  ; which  regulates  from  a distance  of 
several  hundred  miles,  the  repairing  of  a shed  or  the 
cutting  down  of  a tree,  and  allows  not  the  people  to 
stir  a finger  even  in  their  local  affairs,  except  indeed  by 
such  writing  and  printing  as  a host  of  restrictive  laws 
permitted  to  them,  and  (if  they  paid  300  francs  or  up- 
wards in  direct  taxes)  by  electing  and  sending  to  Paris 
the  two-hundredth  or  three-hundredth  fractional  part 
of  a representative,  there  to  vote  such  things  as  the 
Charter  of  Louis  XVIII.  placed  within  the  competency 
of  the  national  council.  That  Charter,  extorted  from 
the  prudence  of  Louis  by  the  necessities  of  the  times, 
and  “ broken  ere  its  ink  was  dried,”  alone  stood 
between  France  and  a dark,  soul-stifling  and  mind- 
stifling  despotism,  combining  some  of  the  worst  of 
the  evils  which  the  Revolution  and  Napoleon  had 

12—2 


180  ARMAND  CARREL 

cleared  away,  with  the  worst  of  those  which  they  had 
brought. 

By  a combination  of  good  sense  and  folly,  of  which 
it  is  difficult  to  say  which  was  most  profitable  to  the 
cause  of  freedom,  the  Bourbons  saw  the  necessity  of 
giving  a representative  constitution,  but  not  that  of 
allying  themselves  with  the  class  in  whose  hands  that 
constitution  had  placed  so  formidable  a power.  They 
would  have  found  them  tractable  enough ; witness  the 
present  ruler  of  France,  who  has  “ lain  down  in  the 
sheets  of  Napoleon  ” with  considerably  more  effect. 
The  Constitution  of  1814,  like  that  of  1880  which  fol- 
lowed it,  gave  a share  of  the  governing  power  exclu- 
sively to  the  rich  : if  the  Bourbons  would  but  have 
allied  themselves  with  the  majority  of  the  rich  instead 
of  the  minority,  they  would  have  been  on  the  throne 
now,  and  with  as  absolute  a power  as  any  of  their  pre- 
decessors, so  long  as  they  conformed  to  that  condition. 
But  they  would  not  do  it : they  would  not  see  that  the 
only  aristocracy  possible  in  a wealthy  community,  is 
an  aristocracy  of  wealth : Louis  during  the  greater 
part  of  his  reign,  and  Charles  during  the  whole  of  his, 
bestowed  exclusively  upon  the  classes  which  had  been 
powerful  once,  those  favours  which,  had  they  been 
shared  with  the  classes  which  were  powerful  now, 
would  have  rendered  the  majority  of  those  classes  the 
most  devoted  adherents  of  the  throne.  For  the  sake  of 
classes  who  had  no  longer  the  principal  weight  in  the 
country,  and  whose  power  was  associated  with  the 
recollections  of  all  which  the  country  most  detested, 
the  Bourbons  not  only  slighted  the  new  aristocracy, 
but  kept  both  them  and  the  people  in  perpetual  alarm, 
both  for  whatever  was  dearest  to  them  in  the  institu- 
tions which  the  Revolution  had  given,  and  which  had 
been  cheaply  purchased  by  the  sacrifice  of  a whole 
generation,  and  even  for  the  “material  interests” 
(such  as  those  of  the  possessors  of  national  property) 
which  had  grown  out  of  the  Revolution,  and  were 
identified  with  it.  The  Chamber  of  Deputies,  there- 
fore, or,  as  it  might  have  been  called,  the  new  Estate 


ARMAND  CARREL 


181 


of  the  Rich,  worked  like  the  Comitia  Centuriata  of  the 
Roman  Commonwealth,  which,  in  this  respect,  it  re- 
sembled. Like  the  Comitia  Centuriata,  it  was,  from 
the  principle  of  its  constitution,  the  organ  of  the  rich  ; 
and  like  that,  it  served  as  an  organ  for  popular  pur- 
poses so  long  as  the  predominant  section  of  the  rich, 
being  excluded  from  a direct  share  in  the  government, 
had  a common  interest  with  the  people.  This  result 
might  have  been  foreseen ; but  the  Bourbons  either  did 
not  foresee  it,  or  thought  themselves  strong  enough  to 
prevent  it. 

At  the  time,  however,  when  Carrel  first  entered  into 
life,  any  one  might  have  been  excused  for  thinking  that 
the  Bourbons,  if  they  had  made  a bad  calculation  for 
the  ultimate  duration  of  their  dynasty,  had  made  a 
good  one  for  its  present  interests.  They  had  put  down, 
with  triumphant  success,  a first  attempt  at  resistance 
by  the  new  aristocracy. 

A Chamber  of  furious  royalists,  elected  immediately 
after  the  second  restoration  (afterwards  with  affec- 
tionate remembrance  called  the  chambre  introuvable , 
from  the  impossibility  of  ever  again  getting  a similar 
one),  had  sanctioned  or  tolerated  excesses  against  the 
opposite  party,  worthy  only  of  the  most  sanguinary 
times  of  the  Revolution ; and  had  carried  their  enter- 
prises in  behalf  of  feudalism  and  bigotry  to  a pitch  of 
rashness  by  which  Louis,  who  was  no  fanatic,  was 
seriously  alarmed  : and  in  September,  1817,  amidst  the 
applauses  of  all  France,  he  dissolved  the  Chamber,  and 
called  to  his  councils  a semi-liberal  ministry.  The 
indignation  and  alarm  excited  by  the  conduct  of  the 
royalists,  produced  a reaction  among  the  classes  pos- 
sessed of  property,  in  favour  of  liberalism.  By  the 
law  as  it  then  stood,  a fifth  part  of  the  Chamber  went 
out  every  year : the  elections  in  1818  produced  hardly 
any  but  liberals  ; those  in  1819  did  the  same  ; and 
those  of  1820,  it  was  evident,  would  give  the  liberal 
party  a majority.  The  electoral  body  too,  as,  fortu- 
nately, electoral  bodies  are  wont,  had  not  confined  its 
choice  to  men  who  represented  exactly  its  own  interests 


182 


ARMAND  CARREL 


and  sentiments,  but  had  mingled  with  them  the  ablest 
and  most  honoured  of  its  temporary  allies,  the  de- 
fenders of  the  “ good  old  cause.”  The  new  aristocracy 
could  still  hear,  and  not  repudiate,  the  doctrines  of 
1789,  pronounced  with  the  limitations  dictated  by  ex- 
perience, from  the  eloquent  lips  of  Foy,  and  Benjamin 
Constant,  and  Manuel.  It  could  still  patronize  a news- 
paper press,  free  for  the  first  time  since  1792,  which 
raised  its  voice  for  those  doctrines,  and  for  an  inter- 
pretation of  the  charter  in  the  spirit  of  them.  Even 
among  the  monied  classes  themselves  there  arose,  as 
in  all  aristocracies  there  will,  some  men  whose  talents 
or  sympathies  make  them  the  organs  of  a better  cause 
than  that  of  aristocracy.  Casimir  Perier  had  not  yet 
sunk  the  defender  of  the  people  in  the  defender  of  his 
counting-house ; and  Laffitte  was  then  what  he  is  still 
and  will  be  to  the  end  of  his  disinterested  and  generous 
career.  Among  the  new  members  of  the  legislature 
there  was  even  found  the  Abbe  Gregoire,  one  of  the 
worthiest  and  most  respected  characters  in  France, 
but  a conspicuous  member  of  the  Montagne  party  in 
the  Convention.* 

This  rapid  progress  of  the  popular  party  to  ascen- 
dancy was  not  what  Louis  had  intended  : he  wished 
to  keep  the  liberals  as  a counterpoise  to  the  priestly 
party,  but  it  never  entered  into  his  purposes  that  they 
should  predominate  in  the  legislature.  His  “ system e 
de  bascule ,”  literally  system  of  see-saw,  of  playing  off 
one  party  against  another,  and  maintaining  his  in- 
fluence by  throwing  it  always  into  the  scale  of  the 
weakest,  required  that  the  next  move  should  be  to 
the  royalist  side.  Demonstrations  were  therefore 
made  towards  a modification  of  the  electoral  law ; to 
take  effect  while  the  anti-popular  party  had  still  a 

* He  has  been  called  a regicide  : had  the  assertion  been  true, 
it  was  equally  true  of  Carnot  and  many  others  of  the  noblest 
characters  in  France ; but  the  fact  was  otherwise.  Gregoire 
was  absent  on  a mission  during  the  trial  of  Louis  XVI.,  and 
associated  himself  by  letter  with  the  verdict,  but  not  with 
the  sentence. 


ARMAND  CARREL 


188 


majority,  before  the  dreaded  period  of  the  next  annual 
elections.  At  this  crisis,  when  the  fate  of  parties 
hung  trembling  in  the  balance,  the  Due  de  Berri, 
heir  presumptive  to  the  throne,  fell  by  the  hand  of 
an  assassin.  This  catastrophe,  industriously  imputed 
to  the  renewed  propagation  of  revolutionary  principles, 
excited  general  horror  and  alarm.  The  new  aris- 
tocracy recoiled  from  their  alliance  with  liberalism. 
The  crime  of  Louvel  was  as  serviceable  to  the  imme- 
diate objects  of  those  against  whom  it  was  perpetrated, 
as  the  crime  of  Fieschi  has  been  since.  A change  of 
ministry  took  place  ; laws  were  passed  restrictive  of 
the  press,  and  a law  which,  while  it  kept  within  the 
letter  of  the  charter  by  not  disfranchising  any  of  the 
electors,  created  within  the  electoral  body  a smaller 
body  returning  an  additional  number  of  representa- 
tives. The  elections  which  took  place  in  consequence, 
gave  a decided  majority  to  the  feudal  and  priestly 
party ; an  ultra-royalist  ministry  was  appointed  ; and 
the  triumph  of  the  retrogrades,  the  party  of  ancient 
privileges,  seemed  assured. 

It  is  incident  to  a country  accustomed  to  a state  of 
revolution,  that  the  party  which  is  defeated  by  peace- 
ful means  will  try  violent  ones.  The  popular  party 
in  France  was  now  in  a similar  situation  to  the 
popular  party  in  England  during  the  royalist  reaction 
which  followed  the  dissolution  of  the  last  parliament 
of  Charles  II.  Like  them,  they  had  recourse  to  what 
Carrel  afterwards,  in  his  History  of  the  Counter- 
Revolution  in  England , called  “ the  refuge  of  weak 
parties,”  conspiracy.  The  military  revolutions  in 
Spain,  Portugal,  and  Naples,  had  inspired  many 
ardent  spirits  in  France  with  a desire  to  follow  the 
example  : from  1820  to  1822  Carbonaro  societies 
spread  themselves  over  France,  and  military  con- 
spiracies continually  broke  out  and  were  suppressed. 
It  would  have  been  surprising  if  Carrel,  whose 
favourite  heroes  even  at  school  were  Hoche,  Marceau, 
and  Kleber,  whose  democratic  opinons  had  attracted 
the  notice  of  his  superiors  at  St.  Cyr,  and  to  whose 


184 


ARMAND  CARREL 


youthful  aspirations  no  glory  attainable  to  him  ap- 
peared equal  to  that  of  the  successful  general  of  a 
liberating  army,  had  not  been  implicated  in  some  of 
these  conspiracies.  Like  almost  all  the  bravest  and 
most  patriotic  of  the  young  men  in  his  rank  of  society 
entertaining  liberal  opinions,  he  paid  his  tribute  to  the 
folly  of  the  day ; and  he  had  a narrow  escape  from 
discovery,  of  which  M.  Littre  gives  the  following 
narrative  : 

“ Carrel  was  a sub -lieutenant  in  the  29th  of  the  line, 
in  1821,  when  conspiracies  were  forming  in  every 
quarter  against  the  Restoration.  The  29th  was  in 
garrison  at  Befort  and  New  Brisach.  Carrel  was 
quartered  in  the  latter  place.  He  was  engaged  in 
the  plot  since  called  the  conspiracy  of  Befort.  The 
officers  at  New  Brisach  who  were  in  the  secret,  were 
discouraged  by  repeated  delays,  and  would  not  stir 
until  the  insurrection  should  have  exploded  at  Befort. 
It  was  indispensable,  however,  that  they  should  move 
as  soon  as  the  blow  should  have  been  successfully 
struck  in  the  latter  place.  The  Grand  Lodge  (of 
Carbonari)  had  sent  from  Paris  several  conspirators  ; 
one  of  them,  M.  Joubert,  had  come  to  New  Brisach, 
to  see  what  was  to  be  done  ; Carrel  offered  to  go  with 
him  to  Befort,  to  join  in  the  movement,  and  bring 
back  the  news  to  New  Brisach.  Both  set  off,  and 
arrived  at  Befort  towards  midnight.  The  plot  had 
been  discovered,  several  persons  had  been  arrested, 
the  conspirators  were  dispersed.  Carrel  rode  back 
to  New  Brisach  at  full  gallop,  and  arrived  early  in 
the  morning.  He  had  time  to  return  to  his  quarters, 
put  on  his  uniform,  and  attend  the  morning  exercise, 
without  any  one’s  suspecting  that  he  had  been  out  all 
night.  When  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot  to  discover 
the  accomplices  of  the  Befort  conspirators,  and  espe- 
cially to  find  who  it  was  that  had  gone  thither  from 
New  Brisach,  nothing  could  be  discovered,  and  sus- 
picion rested  upon  any  one  rather  than  Carrel,  for  his 
careless  levity  of  manner  had  made  his  superiors  con- 
sider him  a man  quite  unlikely  to  be  engaged  in  plots.’’ 


ABMAND  CABBEL 


185 


Nine  years  later,  M.  Joubert  was  heading  the  party 
which  stormed  the  Louvre  on  the  29th  of  July,  and 
Carrel  had  signed  the  protest  of  the  forty-two  jour- 
nalists, and  given,  by  an  article  in  the  National , the 
first  signal  of  resistance.  This  is  not  the  only  instance 
in  the  recent  history  of  France,  when,  as  during  the 
first  French  Bevolution,  names  lost  sight  of  for  a time, 
meet  us  again  at  the  critical  moments. 

These  attempts  at  insurrection  did  the  Bourbons  no 
damage,  but  caused  them  some  uneasiness  with  regard 
to  the  fidelity  of  the  army.  The  counter-revolutionary 
party,  however,  was  now  under  the  conduct  of  the  only 
man  of  judgment  and  sagacity  who  has  appeared  in 
that  party  since  the  Bevolution,  M.  de  Villele.  This 
minister  adopted  (though,  it  is  said,  with  misgiving 
and  reluctance)  the  bold  idea  of  conquering  the  dis- 
affection of  the  army  by  sending  it  to  fight  against  its 
principles.  He  knew  that  with  men  in  the  position 
and  in  the  state  of  feeling  in  which  it  was,  all 
depended  on  the  first  step,  and  that  if  it  could  but 
be  induced  to  fire  one  shot  for  the  drapeau  blanc 
against  the  tricolore , its  implicit  obedience  might  be 
reckoned  on  for  a long  time  to  come.  Accordingly, 
constitutional  France  took  the  field  against  constitu- 
tional government  in  Spain,  as  constitutional  England 
had  done  before  in  France — in  order  that  Ferdinand, 
save  the  mark  ! might  be  restored  to  the  enjoyment  of 
liberty  : and  the  history  of  the  campaign,  by  which  he 
was  restored  to  it,  furnishes  a curious  picture  of  a 
victorious  army  putting  down  by  force  those  with 
whom  it  sympathized,  and  protecting  them  against 
the  vengeance  of  allies  whom  it  despised  and  detested. 

At  this  period  political  refugees  and  other  ardent 
lovers  of  freedom,  especially  military  men,  flocked  to 
the  Spanish  standard ; even  England,  as  it  may  be 
remembered,  contributing  her  share,  in  the  persons 
of  Sir  Bobert  Wilson  and  others.  Carrel,  already 
obnoxious,  by  his  opinions,  to  his  superior  officers,  and 
now  placed  between  the  dictates  of  his  conscience  and 
those  of  military  discipline,  acted  like  Major  Cart- 


186 


ARMAND  CARREL 


wright  at  the  opening  of  the  American  war : he  threw 
up  his  commission  rather  than  fight  in  a cause  he 
abhorred.  Having  done  this,  he  did  what  Major  Cart- 
wright did  not : he  joined  the  opposite  party,  passed 
over  to  Barcelona  in  a Spanish  fishing-boat,  and  took 
service  in  the  “ foreign  liberal  legion,”  commanded  by 
a distinguished  officer,  Colonel  Pachiarotti,  an  Italian 
exile. 

We  shall  not  trace  Carrel  through  the  vicissitudes 
of  this  campaign,  which  was  full  of  hardships,  and 
abounded  in  incidents  honourable  to  him  both  as  an 
officer  and  as  a man.  It  is  well  known  that  in 
Catalonia  the  invading  army  experienced  from  Mina, 
Milans,  and  their  followers,  almost  the  only  vigorous 
resistance  it  had  to  encounter ; and  in  this  resistance 
the  foreign  legion,  in  which  Carrel  served,  bore  a con- 
spicuous part.  Carrel  himself  has  sketched  the  history 
of  the  contest  in  two  articles  in  the  Revue  Francaise , 
much  remarked  at  the  time  for  their  impartiality  and 
statesmanlike  views,  and  which  first  established  his 
reputation  as  a writer. 

In  September,  1828,  the  gallant  Pachiarotti  had 
already  fallen ; supported  on  horseback  by  Carrel 
during  a long  retreat  after  he  was  mortally  wounded, 
and  recommending  with  his  dying  breath  to  the  good 
offices  of  the  persons  present,  “ ce  brave  et  noble  jeune 
homme.”  What  remained  of  the  legion,  after  having 
had,  in  an  attempt  to  relieve  Figueras,  two  desperate 
encounters  with  superior  force,  at  Llado  and  Llers, 
in  which  it  lost  half  its  numbers,  capitulated,*  and 
Carrel  became  the  prisoner  of  his  former  commanding 
officer,  the  Baron  de  Damas.  As  a condition  of  the 
surrender,  M.  de  Damas  pledged  himself  to  use  his 

* M.  de  Chievres,  aide-de-camp  of  M.  de  Damas,  was  the 
officer  through  whose  exertions,  mainly,  terms  were  granted 
to  the  legion  ; and  Carrel,  who  never  forgot  generosity  in  an 
enemy,  was  able,  by  the  manner  in  which  he  related  the 
circumstances,  to  do  important  service  to  M.  de  Chievres  at 
a later  period,  when  on  trial  for  his  life  upon  a charge  of 
conspiracy  against  the  government  of  Louis  Philippe.  The 
particulars  are  in  M.  Littrd’s  narrative. 


AEMAND  CABBED 


187 


utmost  exertions  for  obtaining  the  pardon  of  all  the 
French  who  were  included  in  the  capitulation.  Though 
such  a pledge  was  formally  binding  only  on  the  officer 
who  gave  it,  no  government  could  without  infamy  have 
refused  to  fulfil  its  conditions ; least  of  all  the  French 
cabinet,  of  which  M.  de  Damas  almost  immediately 
afterwards  became  a member.  But  the  rancour  which 
felt  itself  restrained  from  greater  acts  of  vindictiveness, 
with  characteristic  littleness  took  refuge  in  smaller 
ones.  Contrary  to  the  express  promise  of  M.  de  Damas 
(on  whose  individual  honour,  however,  no  imputation 
appears  to  rest),  and  in  disregard  of  the  fact  that  Carrel 
had  ceased  to  be  a member  of  the  army  before  he  com- 
mitted any  act  contrary  to  its  laws,  the  prisoners,  both 
officers  and  soldiers,  were  thrown  into  gaol,  and  Carrel 
was  among  the  first  selected  to  be  tried  by  military  law 
before  a military  tribunal.  The  first  court-martial  de- 
clared itself  incompetent.  A second  was  appointed,  and 
ordered  to  consider  itself  competent.  By  this  second 
court-martial  he  was  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to 
death.  He  appealed  to  a superior  court,  which  annulled 
the  sentence,  on  purely  technical  grounds.  The  desire 
of  petty  vengeance  was  now  somewhat  appeased. 
After  about  nine  months  of  rigorous  and  unwholesome 
confinement,  which  he  employed  in  diligent  studies, 
chiefly  historical,  Carrel  was  brought  a third  time  to 
trial  before  a third  court-martial,  and  acquitted ; and 
was  once  again,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  turned  loose 
upon  the  world. 

After  some  hesitations,  and  a struggle  between  the 
wishes  of  his  family,  which  pointed  to  a counting- 
house,  and  his  own  consciousness  of  faculties  suited  for 
a different  sphere,  he  became  secretary  to  M.  Augustin 
Thierry,  one  of  that  remarkable  constellation  of  co- 
temporary authors  who  have  placed  France  at  the  head 
of  modern  historical  literature.  Carrel  assisted  M. 
Thierry  (whose  sight,  since  totally  lost,  had  already 
been  weakened  by  his  labours)  in  collecting  the  ma- 
terials for  the  concluding  volume  of  his  longest  work, 
The  History  of  the  Conquest  of  England  by  the 


188 


ARMAND  CARREL 


Normans  : and  it  was  by  M.  Thierry’s  advice  that 
Carrel  determined  to  make  literature  his  profession. 
M.  Nisard  gives  an  interesting  account  of  the  manner 
in  which  the  doubts  and  anxieties  of  Carrel’s  mother 
gave  way  before  the  authority  of  M.  Thierry’s  reputa- 
tion. 

“ During  this  period,  Carrel’s  mother  made  a journey 
to  Paris.  M.  Thierry’s  letters  had  not  removed  her 
uneasiness  ; the  humble  life  of  a man  of  letters  did  not 
give  her  confidence,  and  did  not  seem  to  be  particularly 
flattering  to  her.  She  needed  that  M.  Thierry,  should 
renew  his  former  assurances,  and  should  in  a manner, 
stand  surety  for  the  literary  capacity  and  for  the  future 
success  of  her  son.  At  two  different  meetings  with 
M.  Thierry  she  made  a direct  appeal  to  him  to  that 
effect.  ‘ Vous  croyez  done , Monsieur , que  mon  fils 
fait  bien , et  qu'il  aura  une  carrier e V ‘ Je  reponds 
de  lui ,’  answered  M.  Thierry,  4 comme  de  moi-meme  j 
fai  quelqu ’ experience  des  vocations  litter  air  es  : votre 
fils  a toutes  les  qualites  qui  reussissent  aujourddiui .’ 
While  he  thus  spoke,  Madame  Carrel  fixed  upon  him 
a penetrating  look,  as  if  to  distinguish  what  was  the 
prompting  of  truth,  from  what  might  be  the  effect  of 
mere  politeness,  and  a desire  to  encourage.  The  young 
man  himself  listened  in  respectful  silence,  submissive, 
and  according  to  M.  Thierry  almost  timid,  before  his 
mother,  whose  decision  and  firmness  of  mind  had  great 
sway  over  him.  Carrel,  in  this,  bowed  only  to  his  own 
qualities  : what  awed  him  in  his  mother  was  the  quality 
by  which  afterwards,  as  a public  man,  he  himself  over- 
awed others.  The  first  meeting  had  left  Madame 
Carrel  still  doubtful.  M.  Thierry,  pressed  between  two 
inflexible  wills,  the  mother  requiring  of  him  almost  to 
become  personally  responsible  for  her  son,  the  son 
silently  but  in  intelligible  language  pledging  himself 
that  the  guarantee  should  not  be  forfeited,  had  doubt- 
less at  the  second  meeting  expressed  himself  still  more 
positively.  Madame  Carrel  returned  to  Rouen  less 
uneasy  and  more  convinced.55 

Here  then  closes  the  first  period  of  the  life  of  Carrel ; 


ARMAND  CARREL 


189 


and  the  second,  that  of  his  strictly  literary  life,  begins. 
This  lasted  till  the  foundation  of  the  National , a few 
months  before  the  Revolution  of  July. 

The  period  of  six  years,  of  which  we  have  now  to 
speak,  formed  the  culminating  point  of  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  developments  of  the  French  national 
mind : a development  which  for  intensity  and  rapidity, 
and  if  not  for  duration,  for  the  importance  of  its  dur- 
able consequences,  has  not  many  parallels  in  history. 
A large  income  not  being  in  France,  for  persons  in  a 
certain  rank  of  society,  a necessary  of  life  ; and  the 
pursuit  of  money  being  therefore  not  so  engrossing  an 
object  as  it  is  here,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  the 
whole  of  the  most  gifted  young  men  of  a generation 
from  devoting  themselves  to  literature  or  science,  if 
favourable  circumstances  combine  to  render  it  fashion- 
able to  do  so.  Such  a conjuncture  of  circumstances  was 
presented  by  the  state  of  France,  at  the  time  when  the 
Spanish  war  and  its  results  seemed  to  have  riveted  on 
the  necks  of  the  French  people  the  yoke  of  the  feudal 
and  sacerdotal  party  for  many  years  to  come.  The 
Chamber  was  closed  to  all  under  the  age  of  forty ; and 
besides,  at  this  particular  period,  the  law  of  partial 
renewal  had  been  abrogated,  a septennial  act  had  been 
passed,  and  a general  election,  at  the  height  of  the 
Spanish  triumph,  had  left  but  sixteen  Liberals  in  the 
whole  Chamber  of  Deputies.  The  army,  in  a time  of 
profound  peace,  officered  too  by  the  detested  emigres , 
held  out  no  attraction.  Repelled  from  politics,  in  which 
little  preferment  could  be  hoped  for  by  a roturier , 
and  that  little  at  a price  which  a Frenchman  will  least 
of  all  consent  to  pay — religious  hypocrisy  ; the  elite  of 
the  educated  youth  of  France  precipitated  themselves 
into  literature  and  philosophy,  and  remarkable  results 
soon  became  evident. 

The  national  intellect  seemed  to  make  a sudden 
stride,  from  the  stage  of  adolescence  to  that  of  early 
maturity.  It  had  reached  the  era  corresponding  to 
that  in  the  history  of  an  individual  mind,  when,  after 


190 


AEMAND  CAEEEL 


having  been  taught  to  think  (as  every  one  is)  by 
teachers  of  some  particular  school,  and  having  for  a 
time  exercised  the  power  only  in  the  path  shown  to 
it  by  its  first  teachers,  it  begins,  without  abandoning 
that,  to  tread  also  in  other  paths ; learns  to  see  with 
its  naked  eyes,  and  not  through  the  eye-glasses  of  its 
teachers,  and,  from  being  one-sided,  becomes  many- 
sided  and  of  no  school.  The  French  nation  had  had 
two  great  epochs  of  intellectual  development.  It  had 
been  taught  to  speak  by  the  great  writers  of  the  seven- 
teenth century, — to  think  by  the  philosophers  of  the 
eighteenth.  The  present  became  the  era  of  reaction 
against  the  narrowness  of  the  eighteenth  century,  as 
well  as  against  those  narrownesses  of  another  sort 
which  the  eighteenth  century  had  left.  The  stateliness 
and  conventional  decorum  of  old  French  poetic  and 
dramatic  literature,  gave  place  to  a licence  which 
made  free  scope  for  genius  and  also  for  absurdity,  and 
let  in  new  forms  of  the  beautiful  as  well  as  many  of 
the  hideous.  Literature  shook  off  its  chains,  and  used 
its  liberty  like  a galley-slave  broke  loose  ; while  paint- 
ing and  sculpture  passed  from  one  unnatural  extreme 
to  another,  and  the  stiff  school  was  succeeded  by  the 
spasmodic.  This  insurrection  against  the  old  traditions 
of  classicism  was  called  romanticism : and  now,  when 
the  mass  of  rubbish  to  which  it  had  given  birth  has 
produced  another  oscillation  in  opinion  the  reverse 
way,  one  inestimable  result  seems  to  have  survived  it 
— that  life  and  human  feeling  may  now,  in  France,  be 
painted  with  as  much  liberty  as  they  may  be  discussed, 
and,  when  painted  truly,  with  approval : as  by  George 
Sand,  and  in  the  best  writings  of  Balzac.  While  this 
revolution  was  going  on  in  the  artistic  departments 
of  literature,  that  in  the  scientific  departments  was 
still  more  important.  There  was  reaction  against  the 
metaphysics  of  Condillac  and  Helvetius ; and  some  of 
the  most  eloquent  men  in  France  imported  Kantism 
from  Germany,  and  Eeidism  from  Scotland,  to  oppose 
to  it,  and  listening  crowds  applauded,  and  an  “ eclectic 
philosophy  ” was  formed.  There  was  reaction  against 


ARMAND  CARREL 


191 


the  irreligion  of  Diderot  and  d’Holbach  ; and  by  the 
side  of  their  irreligious  philosophy  there  grew  up  re- 
ligious philosophies,  and  philosophies  prophesying  a 
religion,  and  a general  vague  feeling  of  religion,  and  a 
taste  for  religious  ideas.  There  was  reaction  against 
the  premises,  rather  than  against  the  conclusions,  of 
the  political  philosophy  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  : 
men  found  out,  that  underneath  all  political  philosophy 
there  must  be  a social  philosophy — a study  of  agencies 
lying  deeper  than  forms  of  government,  which,  work- 
ing through  forms  of  government,  produce  in  the  long 
run  most  of  what  these  seem  to  produce,  and  which 
sap  and  destroy  all  forms  of  government  that  lie  across 
their  path.  Thus  arose  the  new  political  philosophy 
of  the  present  generation  in  France  ; which,  considered 
merely  as  a portion  of  science,  may  be  pronounced 
greatly  in  advance  of  all  the  other  political  phil- 
osophies which  had  yet  existed ; — a philosophy  rather 
scattered  among  many  minds  than  concentrated  in 
one,  but  furnishing  a storehouse  of  ideas  to  those 
who  meditate  on  politics,  such  as  all  ages  and  nations 
could  not  furnish  previously ; and  inspiring  at  the 
same  time  more  comprehensive,  and  therefore  more 
cautious  views  of  the  past  and  present,  and  far  bolder 
aspirations  and  anticipations  for  the  future.  It  would 
be  idle  to  hold  up  any  particular  book  as  a complete 
specimen  of  this  philosophy  : different  minds,  accord- 
ing to  their  capacities  or  their  tendencies,  have  struck 
out  or  appropriated  to  themselves  different  portions  of 
it,  which  as  yet  have  only  been  partially  harmonized 
and  fitted  into  one  another.  But  if  we  were  asked  for 
the  book  which  up  to  the  present  time  embodies  the 
largest  portion  of  the  spirit,  and  is,  in  the  French 
phrase,  the  highest  expression,  of  this  new  political 
philosophy,  we  should  point  to  the  Democracy  in 
America , by  M.  de  Tocqueville. 

It  was  above  all,  however,  in  history,  and  historical 
disquisition,  that  the  new  tendencies  of  the  national 
mind  made  themselves  way.  And  a fact  may  be  re- 
marked, which  strikingly  illustrates  the  difference 


192 


ARMAND  CARREL 


between  the  French  and  the  English  mind,  and  the 
rapidity  with  which  an  idea,  thrown  into  French  soil, 
takes  root,  and  blossoms,  and  fructifies.  Sir  Walter 
Scott’s  romances  have  been  read  by  every  educated 
person  in  Great  Britain  who  has  grown  up  to  manhood 
or  womanhood  in  the  last  twenty  years ; and,  except 
the  memory  of  much  pleasure,  and  a few  mediocre 
imitations,  forgotten  as  soon  as  read,  they  have  left  no 
traces  that  we  know  of  in  the  national  mind.  But  it 
was  otherwise  in  France.  Just  as  Byron  and  the  cast- 
off boyish  extravagances  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  which 
Byron  did  but  follow,  have  been  the  origin  of  all  the 
sentimental  ruffians,  theLacenaires  in  imagination  and 
in  action,  with  which  the  Continent  swarms,  but  have 
produced  little  fruit  of  that  description,  comparatively 
speaking,  in  these  islands  ; so,  to  compare  good  in- 
fluences with  bad,  did  Scott’s  romances,  and  especially 
Ivanhoe , which  in  England  were  only  the  amusement 
of  an  idle  hour,  give  birth  (or  at  least  nourishment)  to 
one  of  the  principal  intellectual  products  of  our  time, 
the  modern  French  school  of  history.  M.  Thierry, 
whose  Letters  on  the  History  of  France  gave  the  first 
impulse,  proclaims  the  fact.  Seeing,  in  these  fictions, 
past  events  for  the  first  time  brought  home  to  them  as 
realities,  not  mere  abstractions;  startled  by  finding, 
what  they  had  not  dreamed  of,  Saxons  and  Normans 
in  the  reign  of  Richard  the  First ; thinking  men  felt 
flash  upon  them  for  the  first  time  the  meaning  of  that 
philosophical  history,  that  history  of  human  life,  and 
not  of  kings  and  battles,  which  Voltaire  talked  of,  but, 
writing  history  for  polemical  purposes,  could  not  suc- 
ceed in  realizing.  Immediately  the  annals  of  France, 
England,  and  other  countries,  began  to  be  systemati- 
cally searched ; the  characteristic  features  of  society 
and  life  at  each  period  were  gathered  out,  and  ex- 
hibited in  histories,  and  speculations  on  history,  and 
historical  fictions.  All  works  of  imagination  were  now 
expected  to  have  a couleur  locale ; and  the  dramatic 
scenes  and  romances  of  Vitet,  Merimee,  and  Alfred  de 
Vigny,  among  the  best  productions  of  the  romantic 


ARMAND  CARREL 


193 


school  in  those  years,  are  evidences  of  the  degree  in 
which  they  attained  it.  M.  de  Barante  wrote  the  his- 
tory of  two  of  the  most  important  centuries  in  his 
country’s  annals,  from  the  materials,  and  often  in  the 
words,  of  Froissart  and  Comines..  M.  Thierry’s  re- 
searches into  the  early  history  of  the  town-communities, 
brought  to  light  some  of  the  most  important  facts  of  the 
progress  of  Society  in  France  and  in  all  Europe.  While 
Mignet  and  Thiers,  in  a style  worthy  of  the  ancient 
models,  but  with  only  the  common  ideas  of  their  time, 
recounted  the  recent  glories  and  sufferings  of  their 
country,  other  writers,  among  whom  Auguste  Comte 
in  his  commencements,  and  the  founders  of  the  St. 
Simonian  school  were  conspicuous,  following  in  the 
steps  of  Herder,  Yico,  and  Condorcet,  analyzed  the 
facts  of  universal  history,  and  connected  them  by 
generalizations,  which,  if  unsatisfactory  in  some  re- 
spects, explained  much,  and  placed  much  in  a new 
and  striking  light ; and  M.  Guizot,  a man  of  a greater 
range  of  ideas  and  greater  historical  impartiality  than 
most  of  these,  gave  to  the  world  those  immortal  Essays 
and  Lectures,  for  which  posterity  will  forgive  him  the 
faults  of  his  political  career. 

In  the  midst  of  an  age  thus  teeming  with  valuable 
products  of  thought,  himself  without  any  more  active 
career  to  engross  his  faculties,  the  mind  of  Carrel  could 
not  remain  unproductive.  “ In  a bookseller’s  back- 
shop,”  says  M.  Nisard  (for  the  young  author,  in  his 
struggle  for  subsistence,  for  a short  time  entered 
seriously  into  the  views  of  his  family,  and  embarked 
some  money  supplied  by  them  in  an  unsuccessful  book- 
selling speculation),  “ on  a desk  to  which  was  fastened 
a great  Newfoundland  dog,  Carrel,  one  moment  ab- 
sorbed in  English  memoirs  and  papers,  another 
moment  caressing  his  favourite  animal,  conceived  and 
wrote  his  History  of  the  Counter-Bevolution  in  Eng- 
landIt  was  published  in  February,  1827 ; and 
though  the  age  has  produced  historical  works  of 
profounder  philosophical  investigation,  yet  in  its  kind, 
and  for  what  it  aims  at,  it  deserves  to  be  considered 

13 


194 


ARMAND  CARREL 


one  of  the  most  finished  productions  of  that  remark- 
able era. 

It  is  a history  of  the  two  last  Stuarts  ; of  their 
attempts  to  re-establish  Popery  and  arbitrary  power, 
their  temporary  success,  and  ultimate  overthrow  by 
the  Revolution  of  1688.  Their  situation  and  conduct 
presented  so  close  a parallel  to  that  which  the  two  last 
Bourbons  at  that  time  exhibited  in  France,  that  the 
subject  was  a favourite  one  with  the  French  writers  of 
the  period.  There  could  not  have  been  a more  natural 
occasion  for  violent  republicanism,  or  any  kind  of 
revolutionary  violence,  to  display  itself,  if  Carrel  had 
been  the  fanatic  which  it  is  often  supposed  that  all 
democratic  reformers  must  be.  But  we  find  no  re- 
publicanism in  this  book,  no  partisanship  of  any  kind ; 
the  book  is  almost  too  favourable  to  the  Stuarts  ; there 
is  hardly  anything  in  it  which  might  not  have  been  i 
written  by  a clear-sighted  and  reflecting  person  of  any  ! 
of  the  political  parties  which  divide  the  present  day. 
But  we  find  instead,  in  every  page,  distinct  evidence  of 
a thoroughly  practical  mind  : a mind  which  looks  out,  r 
in  every  situation,  for  the  causes  which  were  actually 
operating,  discerns  them  with  sagacity,  sees  what  they 
must  have  produced,  what  could  have  been  done  to 
modify  them,  and  how  far  they  were  practically  mis- 
understood : a statesman,  judging  of  statesmen  by 
placing  himself  in  their  circumstances,  and  seeing  what 
they  could  have  done ; not  by  the  rule  and  square  of  some 
immutable  theory  of  mutable  things,  nor  by  that  most ; 
fallacious  test  for  estimating  men’s  actions,  the  rightness' 
or  wrongness  of  their  speculative  views.  If  Carrel  had 
done  nothing  else,  he  would  have  shown  by  this  book 
that,  like  Mirabeau,  he  was  not  a slave  to  formulas  ; no 
pre-established  doctrine  as  to  how  things  must  be,  ever 
prevented  him  from  seeing  them  as  they  were.  “ Every- 
where and  at  all  times,”  says  he,  “ it  is  the  wants  of  the 
time  which  have  created  the  conventions  called  political 
principles,  and  those  principles  have  always  been  pushed 
aside  by  those  wants.”  “ All  questions  as  to  forms  of 
government,”  he  says  in  another  place,  “ have  their  j 


ARMAND  CARREL 


195 


data  in  the  condition  of  society,  and  nowhere  else.” 
The  whole  spirit  of  the  new  historical  school  is  in  these 
two  sentences.  The  great  character  by  which  Carrel’s 
book  differs  from  all  other  histories  of  the  time,  with 
which  we  are  acquainted,  is,  that  in  it  alone  are  we  led 
to  understand  and  account  for  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  time,  from  the  ebb  and  flow  of  public  opinion ; the 
causes  of  which,  his  own  practical  sagacity,  and  a 
Frenchman’s  experience  of  turbulent  times,  enabled 
Carrel  to  perceive  and  interpret  with  a truth  and  power 
that  must  strike  every  competent  judge  who  compares 
his  short  book  with  the  long  books  of  other  people. 
And  we  may  here  notice,  as  an  example  of  the  su- 
periority of  French  historical  literature  to  ours,  that* 
of  the  most  interesting  period  in  the  English  annals, 
the  period  of  the  Stuarts,  France  has  produced,  within 
a very  few  years  too,  the  best,  the  second-best,  and  the 
third-best  history.  The  best  is  this  of  Carrel ; the 
second-best  is  the  unfinished  work  of  M.  Guizot,  his 
History  of  the  English . 'Revolution ; the  third  in  merit 
is  M.  Mazure’s  History  of  the  Revolution  of  1688,. 
a work  of  greater  detail,  and  less  extensive  views, 
but  which  has  brought  much  new  information  from 
Barillon’s  papers  and  elsewhere,  is  unexceptionable  as 
to  impartiality,  and  on  the  whole  a highly  valuable 
accession  to  the  literature  of  English  history. 

The  style  of  the  Histoire  de  la  Contre-Revolution , 
according  to  M.  Nisard,  did  not  give  Carrel  the  reputa- 
tion he  afterwards  acquired  as  a master  of  expression. 
But  we  agree  with  M.  Nisard,  a most  competent  judge, 
and  a severe  critic  of  his  cotemporaries,  in  thinking 
this  judgment  of  the  French  public  erroneous.  We 
already  recognise  in  this  early  performance,  the  pen 
which  was  afterwards  compared  to  a sword’s  point 
( il  semblait  ecrire  avec  une  pointe  d'acier).  It  goes 
clean  and  sharp  to  the  very  heart  of  the  thing  to 
be  said,  says  it  without  ornament  or  periphrasis,  or 
'phrases  of  any  kind,  and  in  nearly  the  fewest  words 
in  which  so  much  could  be  told.  The  style  cuts  the 
meaning  into  the  mind  as  with  an  edge  of  steel.  It. 

13—2 


196 


ARMAND  CARREL 


wants  the  fertility  of  fancy  which  Carrel  afterwards 
displayed  ; an  indispensable  quality  to  a writer  of  the 
first  rank,  but  one  which,  in  spite  of  the  authority  of 
Cicero  and  Quintilian,  we  believe  to  be,  oftener  than 
is  supposed,  the  last  rather  than  the  first  quality 
which  such  writers  acquire.  The  grand  requisite  of 
good  writing  is,  to  have  something  to  say : to  attain 
this,  is  becoming  more  and  more  the  grand  effort  of  all 
minds  of  any  power,  which  embark  in  literature  ; and 
important  truths,  at  least  in  human  nature  and  life, 
seldom  reveal  themselves  but  to  minds  which  are 
found  equal  to  the  secondary  task  of  ornamenting 
those  truths,  when  they  have  leisure  to  attend  to  it. 
A mind  which  has  all  natural  human  feelings,  which 
draws  its  ideas  fresh  from  realities,  and,  like  all  first- 
rate  minds,  varies  and  multiplies  its  points  of  view, 
gathers  as  it  goes  illustrations  and  analogies  from  all 
nature.  So  was  it  with  Carrel.  The  fashion  of  the 
day,  when  he  began,  was  picturesqueness  of  style,  and 
that  was  what  the  imitative  minds  were  all  straining 
for.  Carrel,  who  wrote  from  himself  and  not  from 
imitation,  put  into  his  style  first  what  was  in  himself 
first,  the  intellect  of  a great  writer.  The  other  half  of 
the  character,  the  imaginative  part,  came  to  maturity 
somewhat  later,  and  was  first  decidedly  recognised  in 
the  Essays  on  the  War  in  Spain,  which,  as  we  have 
already  said,  were  published  in  the  Revue  Francaise , 
a periodical  on  the  plan  of  the  English  reviews,  to 
which  nearly  all  the  most  philosophical  minds  in 
France  contributed,  and  which  was  carried  on  for 
several  years  with  first-rate  ability. 

The  editor  of  this  review  was  M.  Guizot.  That 
Guizot  and  Carrel  should  for  a time  be  found  not  only 
fighting  under  the  same  banner,  but  publishing  in  the 
same  periodical  organ,  is  a fact  characteristic  of  the 
fusion  of  parties  and  opinions  which  had  by  this  time 
taken  place  to  oppose  the  progress  of  the  counter- 
revolution. 

The  victory  in  Spain  had  put  the  royalists  in  com- 
plete possession  of  the  powers  of  government.  The 


ARMAND  CARREL 


197 


elections  of  1824  had  given  them,  and  their  septennial 
act  secured  to  them  for  a period,  their  chambre  des 
trois  cents , so  called  from  the  300  feudalists,  or 
creatures  of  the  feudalists,  who,  with  about  100  more 
moderate  royalists,  and  sixteen  liberals  of  different 
shades,  made  up  the  whole  Chamber.  It  is  for  history, 
already  familiar  with  the  frantic  follies  of  this  most 
unteachable  party,  to  relate  all  they  did,  or  attempted : 
the  forty  millions  sterling  which  they  voted  into  their 
own  pockets  under  the  name  of  compensation  to  the 
emigrants ; their  law  of  sacrilege,  worthy  of  the 
bigotry  of  the  middle  ages ; the  re-establishment  of 
the  Jesuits,  the  putting  down  of  the  Lancasterian 
schools,  and  throwing  all  the  minor  institutions  of 
education  (they  did  not  yet  openly  venture  upon  the 
University)  into  the  hands  of  the  priests.  The  mad- 
men thought  they  could  force  back  Catholicism  upon 
a people,  of  whom  the  educated  classes,  though  not, 
as  they  are  sometimes  represented,  hostile  to  religion, 
but  either  simply  indifferent  or  decidedly  disposed  to 
a religion  of  some  sort  or  other,  had  for  ever  bidden 
adieu  to  that  form  of  it,  and  could  as  easily  have  been 
made  Hindoos  or  Mussulmans  as  Roman  Catholics. 
All  that  bribery  could  do  was  to  make  hypocrites,  and 
of  these  (some  act  of  hypocrisy  being  a condition  of 
preferment)  there  were  many  edifying  examples ; 
among  others,  M.  Dupin,  since  President  of  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  who,  soon  after  the  accession 
of  Charles  the  Tenth,  devoutly  followed  the  Host  in 
a procession  to  St.  Acheul.*  If  our  memory  deceive 
us  not,  Marshal  Soult  was  another  of  these  illustrious 
converts ; he  became  one  of  Charles  the  Tenth’s  peers, 
and  wanted  only  to  have  been  his  minister  too,  to 
have  made  him  the  Sunderland  of  the  French  1688. 

In  the  meantime,  laws  were  prepared  against  the 
remaining  liberties  of  France,  and  against  the  in- 
stitutions dearest  to  the  people,  of  those  which  the 

* [Also  memorable  as  almost  the  only  man  of  political 
distinction  who  has  given  in  a similar  adhesion  to  the  present 
despotism.] 


198 


ARMAND  CARREL 


Revolution  had  given.  Not  content  with  an  almost 
■constant  censorship  on  the  newspaper  press,  the  fac- 
tion proposed  rigid  restraints  upon  the  publication 
even  of  books  below  a certain  size.  A law  also  was 
framed  to  re-establish  primogeniture  and  entails, 
among  a nation  which  universally  believes  that  the 
family  affections,  on  the  strength  of  which  it  justly 
values  itself,  depend  upon  the  observance  of  equal 
justice  in  families,  and  would  not  survive  the  revival 
of  the  unnatural  preference  for  the  eldest  son.  These 
laws  passed  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  amidst  the  most 
violent  storm  of  public  opinion  which  had  been  known 
in  France  since  the  Revolution.  The  Chamber  of 
Peers,  faithful  to  its  mission  as  the  Conservative 
branch  of  the  Constitution,  rejected  them.  M.  de 
Villele  felt  the  danger,  but  a will  more  impetuous  and 
a judgment  weaker  than  his  own,  compelled  him  to 
advance.  He  created  (or  the  King  created)  a batch  of 
sixty-six  peers,  and  dissolved  the  Chamber. 

But  affairs  had  greatly  altered  since  the  elections  of 
1824.  By  the  progress,  not  only  of  disgust  at  the 
conduct  of  the  faction,  but  of  a presentiment  of  the 
terrible  crisis  to  which  it  was  about  to  lead,  the  whole 
of  the  new  aristocracy  had  now  gone  over  to  the 
people.  Not  only  they,  but  the  more  reasonable 
portion  of  the  old  aristocracy,  the  moderate  royalist 
party,  headed  by  Chateaubriand,  and  represented  by 
the  Journal  des  Debats,  had  early  separated  them- 
selves from  the  counter-revolutionary  faction  of  which 
M.  de  Villele  was  the  unwilling  instrument.  Both 
these  bodies,  and  the  popular  party,  now  greatly 
increased  in  strength  even  among  the  electors,  knit 
themselves  in  one  compact  mass  to  overthrow  the 
Villele  Ministry.  The  Aide-toi  Society,  in  which  even 
M.  Guizot  acted  a conspicuous  part,  but  which  was 
mainly  composed  of  the  most  energetic  young  men  of 
the  popular  party,  conducted  the  correspondence  and 
organized  the  machinery  for  the  elections.  A large 
majority  was  returned  hostile  to  the  ministry : they 
were  forced  to  retire,  and  the  King  had  to  submit  to  a 


ARMAND  CARREL 


199 


ministry  of  moderate  royalists,  commonly  called,  from 
its  most  influential  member,  the  Martignac  Ministry. 

The  short  interval  of  eighteen  months,  during 
which  this  ministry  lasted,  was  the  brightest  period 
which  France  has  known  since  the  Revolution : for  a 
reason  which  well  merits  attention ; those  who  had 
the  real  power  in  the  country,  the  men  of  property 
and  the  men  of  talent,  had  not  the  power  at  the 
Tuileries,  nor  any  near  prospect  of  having  it.  It  is 
the  grievous  misfortune  of  France,  that  being  still 
new  to  constitutional  ideas  and  institutions,  she  has 
never  known  what  it  is  to  have  a fair  government,  in 
which  there  is  not  one  law  for  the  party  in  power, 
and  another  law  for  its  opponents.  The  French 
government  is  not  a constitutional  government — it  is  a 
despotism  limited  by  a parliament ; whatever  party 
can  get  the  executive  into  its  hands,  and  induce  a 
majority  of  the  Chamber  to  support  it,  does  prac- 
tically whatever  it  pleases ; hardly  anything  that  it 
can  be  guilty  of  towards  its  opponents  alienates  its 
supporters,  unless  they  fear  that  they  are  themselves 
marked  out  to  be  the  next  victims ; and  even  the 
trampled-on  minority  fixes  its  hopes  not  upon  limit- 
ing arbitrary  power,  but  upon  becoming  the  stronger 
party  and  tyrannizing  in  its  turn.  It  is  to  the 
eternal  honour  of  Carrel  that  he,  and  he  almost  alone, 
in  a subsequent  period  far  less  favourable  than  that 
of  which  we  are  speaking,  recognised  the  great  prin- 
ciple of  which  all  parties  had  more  than  ever  lost 
sight ; — saw  that  this,  above  all,  was  what  his  country 
wanted ; unfurled  the  banner  of  equal  justice  and 
equal  protection  to  all  opinions,  bore  it  bravely  aloft 
in  weal  and  woe  over  the  stormy  seas  on  which  he 
was  cast,  and  when  he  sank,  sank  with  it  flying.  It 
was  too  late.  A revolution  had  intervened ; and 
even  those  who  suffered  from  tyranny,  had  learnt  to 
hope  for  relief  from  revolution,  and  not  from  law  or 
opinion.  But  during  the  Martignac  Ministry,  all 
parties  were  equally  afraid  of,  and  would  have  made 
equal  sacrifices  to  avert  a convulsion.  The  idea 


200 


ARMAND  CARREL 


gained  ground,  and  appeared  to  be  becoming  general, 
of  building  up  in  France  for  the  first  time  a govern- 
ment of  law.  It  was  known  that  the  King  was 
wedded  to  the  counter-revolutionary  party,  and  that 
without  a revolution  the  powers  of  the  executive 
would  never  be  at  the  disposal  of  the  new  aristocracy 
of  wealth,  or  of  the  men  of  talent  who  had  put  them- 
selves at  the  head  of  it.  But  they  had  the  command 
of  the  legislature,  and  they  used  the  power  which 
they  had,  to  reduce  within  bounds  that  which  by 
peaceable  means  they  could  not  hope  to  have.  For 
the  first  time  it  became  the  object  of  the  first  specu- 
lative and  practical  politicians  in  France,  to  limit  the 
power  of  the  executive  ; to  erect  barriers  of  opinion, 
and  barriers  of  law,  which  it  should  not  be  able  to 
overpass,  and  which  should  give  the  citizen  that  pro- 
tection which  he  had  never  yet  had  in  France, 
against  the  tyranny  of  the  magistrate  : to  form,  as  it 
was  often  expressed,  les  moeurs  constitutionnelles , the 
habits  and  feelings  of  a free  government,  and  estab- 
lish in  France,  what  is  the  greatest  political  blessing 
enjoyed  in  England,  the  national  feeling  of  respect  and 
obedience  to  the  law. 

Nothing  could  seem  more  hopeful  than  the  progress 
which  France  was  making,  under  the  Martignac 
Ministry,  towards  this  great  improvement.  The  dis- 
cussions of  the  press,  and  the  teachings  of  the  able 
men  who  headed  the  Opposition,  especially  the  Doc- 
trinaires (as  they  were  called),  M.  Royer  Collard,  the 
Due  de  Broglie,  M.  Guizot,  and  their  followers,  who 
then  occupied  the  front  rank  of  the  popular  party, 
were  by  degrees  working  the  salutary  feelings  of  a 
constitutional  government  into  the  public  mind.  But 
they  had  barely  time  to  penetrate  the  surface.  The 
same  madness  which  hurled  James  the  Second  from 
his  throne,  was  now  fatal  to  Charles  the  Tenth.  In 
an  evil  hour  for  France,  unless  England  one  day 
repay  her  the  debt  which  she  unquestionably  owes  her 
for  the  Reform  Bill,  the  promise  of  this  auspicious 
moment  was  blighted  ; the  Martignac  Ministry  was 


ARMAND  CARREL 


201 


dismissed,  a set  of  furious  emigres  were  appointed,, 
and  a new  general  election  having  brought  a majority 
still  more  hostile  to  them,  the  famous  Ordonnances 
were  issued,  and  the  Bourbon  Monarchy  was  swept 
from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

We  have  called  the  event  which  necessitated  the 
Revolution  of  July,  a misfortune  to  France.  We 
wish  earnestly  to  think  it  otherwise.  But  if  in  some 
forms  that  Revolution  has  brought  considerable  good 
to  France,  in  many  it  has  brought  serious  ill.  Among 
the  evils  which  it  has  done  we  select  two  of  the 
greatest : it  stopped  the  progress  of  the  French  people 
towards  recognising  the  necessity  of  equal  law,  and  a 
strict  definition  of  the  powers  of  the  magistrate  ; and 
it  checked,  and  for  a time  almost  suspended,  the 
literary  and  philosophic  movement  which  had  com- 
menced. 

On  the  fall  of  the  old  aristocracy,  the  new  oligarchy 
came  at  once  into  power.  They  did  not  all  get 
places,  only  because  there  were  not  places  for  alL 
But  there  was  a large  abundance,  and  they  rushed 
upon  them  like  tigers  upon  their  prey.  No  precaution 
wTas  taken  by  the  people  against  this  new  enemy. 
The  discussions  of  the  press  in  the  years  preceding* 
confined  as  they  had  been  both  by  public  opinion  and 
by  severe  legal  penalties,  strictly  within  the  limits  of 
the  Charter,  had  not  made  familiar  to  the  public 
mind  the  necessity  of  an  extended  suffrage  ; and  the 
minds  even  of  enlightened  men,  as  w^e  can  personally 
testify,  at  the  time  of  the  formation  of  the  new  govern- 
ment, were  in  a state  of  the  utmost  obtuseness  on  the 
subject.  The  eighty  thousand  electors  had  hitherto 
been  on  the  side  of  the  people,  and  nobody  seemed  to 
see  any  reason  why  this  should  not  continue  to  be  the 
case.  The  oligarchy  of  wealth  was  thus  allowed 
quietly  to  instal  itself ; its  leaders,  and  the  men  of 
literary  talent  who  were  its  writers  and  orators* 
became  ministers,  or  expectant  ministers,  and  no 
longer  sought  to  limit  the  power  which  was  hence- 
forth to  be  their  own  ; by  degrees,  even,  as  others 


202 


AEMAND  CAEEEL 


attempted  to  limit  it,  they  violated  in  its  defence,  one 
after  another,  every  salutary  principle  of  freedom 
which  they  had  themselves  laboured  to  implant  in  the 
popular  mind.  They  reckoned,  and  the  event  shows 
that  they  could  safely  reckon,  upon  the  King  whom 
they  had  set  up  ; that  he  would  see  his  interest  in 
keeping  a strict  alliance  with  them.  There  was  no 
longer  any  rival  power  interested  in  limiting  that  of 
the  party  in  office.  There  were  the  people  ; but  the 
people  could  not  make  themselves  felt  in  the  legis- 
lature •;  and  attempts  at  insurrection,  until  the  resist- 
ance becomes  thoroughly  national,  a government  is 
always  strong  enough  to  put  down.  There  was  the 
aristocracy  of  talent : and  the  course  was  adopted  of 
buying  off  these  with  a portion  of  the  spoil.  One  of 
the  most  deplorable  effects  of  the  new  government  of 
France,  is  the  profligate  immorality  which  it  is  indus- 
triously spreading  among  the  ablest  and  most  accom- 
plished of  the  youth.  All  the  arts  of  corruption 
which  Napoleon  exercised  towards  the  dregs  of  the 
Eevolution,  are  put  in  practice  by  the  present  ruler 
upon  the  elite  of  France  : and  few  are  they  that  resist. 
Some  rushed  headlong  from  the  first,  and  met  the 
bribers  halfway  ; others  held  out  for  a time,  but  their 
virtue  failed  them  as  things  grew  more  desperate,  and 
as  they  grew  more  hungry.  Every  man  of  literary 
reputation  who  will  sell  himself  to  the  government, 
is  gorged  with  places  and  loaded  with  decorations.  ! 
Every  rising  young  man,  of  the  least  promise,  is  lured  ; 
and  courted  to  the  same  dishonourable  distinction. 
Those  who  resist  the  seduction  must  be  proof  against 
every  temptation  which  is  strongest  on  a French  mind : 
for  the  vanity,  which  is  the  bad  side  of  the  national 
sociability  and  love  of  sympathy,  makes  the  French, 
of  all  others,  the  people  who  are  the  most  eager  for 
distinction,  and  as  there  is  no  national  respect  for 
birth,  and  but  little  for  wealth,  almost  the  only  ad- 
ventitious  distinctions  are  those  which  the  govern-  ! 
ment  can  confer.  Accordingly  the  pursuits  of  intellect, 
but  lately  so  ardently  engaged  in,  are  almost  aban_ 


ABMAND  CARREL 


208 


cloned  ; no  enthusiastic  crowds  now  throng  the  lecture- 
room  ; M.  Guizot  has  left  his  professor’s  chair  and  his 
historical  speculations,  and  would  fain  be  the  Sir 
Robert  Peel  of  France  ; M.  Thiers  is  trying  to  be  the 
Canning  ; M.  Cousin  and  M.  Yillemain  have  ceased  to 
lecture,  have  ceased  even  to  publish ; M.  de  Barante 
is  an  ambassador ; Tanneguy  Duchatel,  instead  of 
expounding  Ricardo,  and  making  his  profound  specu- 
lations known  where  they  are  more  needed  than  in 
any  other  country  in  Europe,  became  a Minister  of 
Commerce  who  dared  not  act  upon  his  own  principles, 
and  is  waiting  to  be  so  again  ; the  press,  which  so 
lately  teemed  with  books  of  history  and  philosophy, 
now  scarcely  produces  one,  and  the  young  men  who 
could  have  written  them  are  either  placemen  or  gaping 
place-hunters,  disgusting  the  well-disposed  of  all 
parties  by  their  avidity,  and  their  open  defiance  of 
even  the  pretence  of  principle. 

Carrel  was  exposed  to  the  same  temptations  with 
other  young  men  of  talent,  but  we  claim  no  especial 
merit  for  him  in  having  resisted  them.  Immediately 
after  the  Revolution,  in  which,  as  already  observed, 
he  took  a distinguished  part,  he  was  sent  by  the 
government  on  an  important  mission  to  the  West : on 
his  return  he  found  himself  gazetted  for  a prefecture  ; 
which  at  that  time  he  might  honestly  have  accepted, 
as  many  others  did  whom  the  conduct  of  the  govern- 
ment afterwards  forced  to  retire.  Carrel  used 
sportively  to  say  that  if  he  had  been  offered  a regi- 
ment, he  perhaps  could  not  have  found  in  his  heart 
to  refuse.  But  he  declined  the  prefecture,  and  took 
his  post  as  editor  and  chief  writer  of  the  National 
which  he  had  founded  a few  months  before  the  Revo- 
lution, in  conjunction  with  MM.  Mignet  and  Thiers, 
but  which  M.  Thiers  had  conducted  until  he  and 
M.  Mignet  got  into  place.  Carrel  now  assumed  the 
management : and  from  this  time  his  rise  was  rapid 
to  that  place  in  the  eye  of  the  public,  which  made 
him,  at  one  period,  the  most  conspicuous  private 
person  in  France.  Never  was  there  an  eminence 


204 


ARMAND  CARREL 


better  merited  ; and  we  have  now  to  tell  how  he 
acquired  it,  and  how  he  used  it. 

It  was  by  no  trick,  no  compliance  with  any  prevailing 
fashion  or  prejudice,  that  Carrel  became  the  leading 
figure  in  politics  on  the  popular  side.  It  was  by  the 
ascendancy  of  character  and  talents,  legitimately 
exercised,  in  a position  for  which  he  was  more  fitted 
than  any  other  man  of  his  age,  and  of  which  he  at 
once  entered  into  the  true  character,  and  applied  it  to 
its  practical  use.  From  this  time  we  are  to  consider 
Carrel  not  as  a literary  man,  but  as  a politician,  and 
his  writings  are  to  be  judged  by  the  laws  of  popular 
oratory.  44  Carrel,”  says  M.  Nisard,  “ was  a writer, 
only  for  want  of  having  an  active  career  fit  to  occupy 
all  his  faculties.  He  never  sought  to  make  himself  a 
name  in  literature.  Writing  was  to  him  a means  of 
impressing,  under  the  form  of  doctrines,  his  own 
practical  aims  upon  the  minds  of  those  whom  he 
addressed.  In  his  view,  the  model  of  a writer  was  a 
man  of  action  relating  his  acts  : Caesar  in  his  Com- 
mentaries, Bonaparte  in  his  Memoirs  : he  held  that 
one  ought  to  write  either  after  having  acted,  or  as  a 
mode  of  action,  when  there  is  no  other  mode  effectual 
or  allowable.  At  a later  period  his  notion  was 
modified,  or  rather  enlarged  and  he  recognised,  that 
there  is  not  only  action  upon  the  outward  world,  there 
is  also  action  upon  the  spiritual  world  of  thought  and 
feeling,  the  action  of  the  artist,  the  preacher,  and  the 
philosopher.  “ Thus  completed,”  says  M.  Nisard, 

4 4 Carrel’s  idea  is  the  best  theory  of  the  art  of  composi- 
tion as  indeed  it  is ; and  it  was  the  secret  of  Carrel’s 
success.  44  He  who  has  a passion  stronger  than  the 
love  of  literary  reputation,  and  who  writes  only  to 
inspire  others  with  the  same ; such  a man,  proceeding 
upon  the  simple  idea  that  the  pen  should  be  a mere 
instrument,  will  write  well  from  the  commencement ; 
and  if  he  has  instinct , which  only  means,  a turn  of 
mind  conformable  to  the  genius  of  his  nation,  he  may 
become  a writer  of  the  first  rank,  without  even  con- 
sidering himself  to  be  a writer.” 


ARMAND  CARREL 


205 


Of  his  eminence  as  a writer,  there  is  but  one  opinion 
in  France,  there  can  be  but  one  among  competent 
judges  in  any  country.  Already,  from  the  time  of  his 
Essays  on  the  War  in  Spain,  “ nothing  mediocre  had 
issued  from  his  pen.”  In  the  various  papers,  literary 
or  political,  which  he  published  in  different  periodical 
works,  “that  quality  of  painting  by  words  which  had 
been  seen  almost  with  surprise  in  his  articles  on  Spain, 
shines  forth  in  nearly  every  sentence.  But  let  there 
be  no  mistake.  It  was  not  some  art  or  mystery  of 
effect  in  which  Carrel  had  grown  more  dexterous ; his 
expression  had  become  more  graphic,  only  because  his 
thoughts  had  become  clearer,  of  a loftier  order,  and 
more  completely  his  own.  Like  all  great  writers,  he 
proportions  his  style  to  his  ideas,  and  can  be  simple 
and  unpretending  in  his  language  when  his  thoughts 
are  of  a kind  which  do  not  require  that  Reason,  to 
express  them,  should  call  in  the  aid  of  Imagination. 
To  apply  to  all  things  indiscriminately  a certain  gift  of 
brilliancy  which  one  is  conscious  of,  and  for  which  one 
has  been  praised,  is  not  genius,  any  more  than  flinging 
epigrams  about  on  all  occasions  is  wit.” 

“All  the  qualities,”  continues  M.  Nisard,  “which 
Carrel  possessed  from  his  first  taking  up  the  pen,  with 
this  additional  gift,  which  came  the  last,  only  because 
there  had  not  before  been  any  sufficient  occasion  to 
call  it  out,  burst  forth  in  the  polemics  of  the  National 
with  a splendour  which  to  any  candid  person  it  must 
appear  hardly  possible  to  exaggerate.  For  who  can 
be  ungrateful  to  a talent  which  even  those  who  feared, 
admired ; whether  they  really  feared  it  less  than  they 
pretended,  or  that  in  France,  people  are  never  so  much 
afraid  of  talent  as  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  admiring 
it.  I shall  not  hesitate  to  affirm  that  from  1831  to 
1834,  the  National , considered  merely  as  a monument 
of  political  literature,  is  the  most  original  production 
of  the  nineteenth  century.”  This  from  so  sober  a 
judge,  and  in  an  age  and  country  which  has  produced 
Paul  Louis  Courier,  is,  we  may  hope,  sufficient. 

Both  M.  Littre  and  M.  Nisard  compare  Carrel’s 


206 


ARMAND  CARREL 


political  writings,  as  literary  productions,  to  the  letters 
of  Junius  ; though  M.  Nisard  gives  greatly  the  super- 
iority to  Carrel.  But  the  comparison  itself  is  an 
injustice  to  him.  There  never  was  anything  less  like 
popular  oratory,  than  those  polished  but  stiff  and 
unnatural  productions ; where  every  cadence  seems 
pre- determined,  and  the  writer  knew  the  place  of  every 
subsequent  word  in  the  sentence,  before  he  finally 
resolved  on  the  first.  The  Orations  of  Demosthenes, 
though  even  Demosthenes  could  not  have  extemporized 
them,  are  but  the  ideal  and  unattainable  perfection  of 
extemporaneous  speaking : but  Apollo  himself  could 
not  have  spoken  the  letters  of  Junius,  without  pausing 
at  the  end  of  every  sentence  to  arrange  the  next.  A 
piece  of  mere  painting,  like  any  other  work  of  art, 
may  be  finished  by  a succession  of  touches  : but  when 
spirit  speaks  to  spirit,  not  in  order  to  please  but 
to  incite,  everything  must  seem  to  come  from  one 
impulse,  from  a soul  engrossed  for  the  moment  with 
one  feeling.  It  seemed  so  with  Carrel,  because  it  was 
so.  “ Unlike  Paul  Louis  Courier,”  says  M.  Littre, 
“ who  hesitated  at  a word,  Carrel  never  hesitated  at  a 
sentence  ” ; and  he  could  speak,  whenever  called  upon, 
in  the  same  style  in  which  he  wrote.  His  style  has 
that  breadth,  which,  in  literature,  as  in  other  works  of 
art,  shows  that  the  artist  has  a character — that  some 
conceptions  and  some  feelings  predominate  in  his  mind 
over  others.  Its  fundamental  quality  is  that  which 
M.  Littre  has  well  characterized,  la  surete  de  V expres- 
sion : it  goes  straight  home  ; the  right  word  is  always 
found,  and  never  seems  to  be  sought : words  are  never 
wanting  to  his  thoughts,  and  never  pass  before  them. 
“ L' expression"  (we  will  not  spoil  by  translation  M. 
Littre ’s  finely  chosen  phraseology)  “ arrivait  toujours 
abondante  comme  la  pensee,  si  pleine  et  si  abondante 
elle-meme  ” ; “ and  if  one  is  not  conscious  of  the  labour 
of  a writer  retouching  carefully  every  passage,  one 
is  conscious  of  a vigorous  inspiration,  which  endows 
everything  with  movement,  form,  and  colour,  and  casts 
in  one  and  the  same  mould  the  style  and  the  thought 


ARMAND  CARREL 


207 


It  would  have  been  in  complete  contradiction  tn 
Carrel’s  idea  of  journalism,  for  the  writer  to  remain 
behind  a curtain.  The  English  idea  of  a newspaper , 
as  a sort  of  impersonal  thing,  coming  from  nobody 
knows  where,  the  readers  never  thinking  of  the  writer, 
nor  caring  whether  he  thinks  what  he  writes,  as  long 
as  they  think  what  he  writes ; — this  would  not  have 
donq  for  Carrel,  nor  been  consistent  with  his  objects. 
The  opposite  idea  already  to  some  extent  prevailed 
in  France  ; newspapers  were  often  written  in,  and  had 
occasionally  been  edited,  by  political  characters,  but 
no  political  character  (since  the  first  Revolution)  had 
made  itself  by  a newspaper.  Carrel  did  so.  To  say 
that  during  the  years  of  his  management  Carrel  con- 
ducted the  National — would  give  an  insufficient  idea. 
The  National  was  Carrel ; it  was  as  much  himself  as 
was  his  conversation,  as  could  have  been  his  speeches, 
in  the  Chamber,  or  his  acts  as  a public  functionary. 
“ The  National ,”  says  M.  Littre,  “ was  a personification 
of  Armand  Carrel ; and,  if  the  journal  gave  expression 
to  the  thoughts,  the  impulses,  the  passions  of  the 
writer,  the  writer  in  his  turn  was  always  on  the* 
breach,  prepared  to  defend,  at  the  peril  of  his  life  or 
of  his  liberty,  what  he  had  said  in  the  journal.” 

He  never  separated  himself  from  his  newspaper. 
He  never  considered  the  newspaper  one  thing  and 
himself  another.  What  was  said  by  a newspaper  to 
a newspaper,  he  considered  as  said  by  a man  to  a man, 
and  acted  accordingly.  He  never  said  anything  m 
his  paper,  to  or  of  any  man,  which  he  would  not  have 
both  dared,  and  thought  it  right,  to  say  personally  and 
in  his  presence.  He  insisted  upon  being  treated  in  the 
same  way ; and  generally  was  so ; though  the  neces- 
sity in  which  he  thought  himself  of  repelling  insult, 
had  involved  him  in  two  duels  before  his  last  fatal 
one.  Where  danger  was  to  be  incurred  in  resisting 
arbitrary  power,  he  was  always  the  first  to  seek  it 
he  never  hesitated  to  throw  down  the  gauntlet  to  the 
government,  challenging  it  to  try  upon  him  any  out- 
rage which  it  was  meditating  against  the  liberty  or- 


*208 


ARMAN  D CARREL 


the  safety  of  the.  citizen.  Nor  was  this  a mere 
bravado  ; no  one  will  think  it  so,  who  knows  how 
unscrupulous  are  all  French  governments,  how  prone 
to  act  from  irritated  vanity  more  than  from  calculation, 
and  how  likely  to  commit  an  imprudence  rather  than 
acknowledge  a defeat.  Carrel  thwarted  a nefarious 
attempt  of  the  Perier  Ministry  to  establish  the  practice 
of  incarcerating  writers  previously  to  trial.  The  thing 
had  been  already  done  in  several  instances,  when 
Carrel,  in  a calm  and  well-reasoned  article,  which  he 
signed  with  his  name,  demonstrated  its  illegality,  and 
declared  that  if  it  was  attempted  in  his  own  case  he 
would,  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  oppose  force  to  force. 
This  produced  its  effect : the  illegality  was  not  re- 
peated ; Carrel  was  prosecuted  for  his  article,  pleaded 
his  own  cause,  and  was  acquitted;  as  on  every  sub- 
sequent occasion  when  the  paper  was  prosecuted  and 
he  defended  it  in  person  before  a jury.  The  National , 
often  prosecuted,  was  never  condemned  but  once,  when, 
by  a miserable  quibble,  the  cause  was  taken  from  the 
jury  to  be  tried  by  the  court  alone ; and  once  again 
before  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  an  occasion  which  was 
made  memorable  by  the  spirit  with  which  Carrel 
spoke  out  in  the  face  of  the  tribunal  which  was  sitting 
to  judge  him,  what  all  France  thinks  of  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  of  its  proceedings,  the  trial  and  con- 
demnation of  Marshal  Ney.  Nothing  on  this  occasion 
could  have  saved  Carrel  from  a heavy  fine  or  a long 
imprisonment,  had  not  a member  of  the  Chamber 
itself,  General  Excelmans,  hurried  away  by  an  irre- 
sistible impulse,  risen  in  his  place,  acknowledged  the 
sentiment,  and  repeated  it. 

Without  these  manifestations  of  spirit  and  intre- 
pidity, Carrel,  however  he  might  have  been  admired 
as  a writer,  could  not  have  acquired  his  great  influence 
as  a man  ; nor  been  enabled  without  imputation  on 
his  courage,  to  keep  aloof  from  the  more  violent  pro- 
ceedings of  his  party,  and  discountenance,  as  he 
steadily  did,  all  premature  attempts  to  carry  their 
point  by  physical  force. 


ARMAND  CARREL 


209 


Whatever  may  have  been  Carrel’s  individual  opinions, 
he  did  not,  in  the  National,  begin  by  being  a re- 
publican ; he  was  willing  to  give  the  new  chief  magis- 
trate a fair  trial ; nor  was  it  until  that  personage  had 
quarrelled  with  Lafayette,  driven  Dupont  de  l’Eure 
and  Laffitte  from  office,  and  called  Casimir  Perier  to 
his  councils  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  turning  back 
the  movement,  that  Carrel  hoisted  republican  colours. 
Long  before  this  the  symptoms  of  what  was  coming 
had  been  so  evident,  as  to  embitter  the  last  moments 
of  Benjamin  Constant,  if  not,  as  was  generally  be- 
lieved, to  shorten  his  existence.  The  new  oligarchy 
had  declared,  both  by  their  words  and  their  deeds, 
that  they  had  conquered  for  themselves,  and  not  for 
the  people : and  the  King  had  shown  his  determination 
that  through  them  he  would  govern,  that  he  would 
make  himself  necessary  to  them,  and  be  a despot, 
using  them  and  rewarding  them  as  his  tools.  It  was 
the  position  which  the  King  assumed  as  the  head  of 
the  oligarchy,  which  made  Carrel  a republican.  He 
was  no  fanatic,  to  care  about  a name,  and  was  too 
essentially  practical  in  his  turn  of  mind  to  fight  for  a 
mere  abstract  principle.  The  object  of  his  declaration 
of  republicanism  was  a thoroughly  practical  one — to 
strike  at  the  ringleader  of  the  opposite  party  ; and,  if 
it  were  impossible  to  overthrow  him,  to  do  what  was 
possible — to  deprive  him  of  the  support  of  opinion. 

Events  have  decided  against  Carrel,  and  it  is  easy, 
judging  after  the  fact,  to  pronounce  that  the  position 
he  took  up  was  not  a wise  one.  We  do  not  contend 
that  it  was  so  ; but  we  do  contend,  that  he  might 
think  it  so,  with  very  little  disparagement  to  his 
judgment. 

On  what  ground  is  it  that  some  of  the  best  writers 
and  thinkers,  in  free  countries,  have  recommended 
kingly  government — have  stood  up  for  constitutional 
royalty  as  the  best  form  of  a free  constitution,  or  at 
least  one  which,  where  it  exists,  no  rational  person 
would  wish  to  disturb  ? On  one  ground  only,  and  on 
one  condition  : — that  a constitutional  monarch  does 

14 


210 


ARMAND  CARREL 


not  himself  govern,  does  not  exercise  his  own  will  in 
governing,  but  confines  himself  to  appointing  respon- 
sible ministers,  and  even  in  that,  does  but  ascertain 
and  give  effect  to  the  national  will.  When  this  con- 
dition is  observed — and  it  is,  on  the  whole,  faithfully 
observed  in  our  own  country — it  is  asked,  and  very 
reasonably,  what  more  could  be  expected  from  a 
republic  ? and  where  is  the  benefit  which  would  be 
gained  by  opening  the  highest  office  in  the  State,  the 
only  place  which  carries  with  it  the  most  tempting 
part  (to  common  minds)  of  power,  th£  show  of  it,  as 
a prize  to  be  scrambled  for  by  every  ambitious  and 
turbulent  spirit,  who  is  willing  to  keep  the  community, 
for  his  benefit,  in  the  mean  turmoil  of  a perp  al 
canvass  ? These  are  the  arguments  used : they  are,  ' 
in  the  present  state  of  society,  unanswerable ; a^»d 
we  should  not  say  a word  for  Carrel,  if  the  French  ! 
government  bore,  or  ever  had  borne,  the  most  distant 
resemblance  to  this  idea  of  constitutional  royalty.  But 
it  never  did  : no  French  king  ever  confined  himself  ; 
within  the  limits  which  the  best  friends  of  c ’• vti- 
tutional  monarchy  allow  to  be  indispensable  t,c  its 
innocuousness  : it  is  always  the  king,  and  n his 
ministers,  that  governs  : and  the  power  of  an  Ei  -fish 
king  would  appear  to  Louis  Philippe  a mere  mo  -cry  ; 
of  royalty.  Now,  if  the  chief  functionary  was  to  be 
his  own  minister,  it  appeared  to  Carrel  absolutely 
necessary  that  he  should  be  a responsible  one  j 

principle  of  a responsible  executive  appeared 
too  all-important  to  be  sacrificed.  As  the  kii 
not  content  himself  with  being  king,  there  , ■ 

instead  of  a king,  be  a removable  and  accountab.  ‘ 
magistrate. 

As  for  the  dangers  of  a republic,  we  should  c ry 
back  our  minds  to  the  period  which  followed  the 
Three  Days,  and  to  the  impression  made  on  all 
Europe  by  the  bravery,  the  integrity,  the  gentleness 
and  chivalrous  generosity,  displayed  at  that  time  by- 
the  populace  of  Paris — and  ask  ourselves  whether  it  ’ 
was  inexcusable  to  have  hoped  everything  from  a 


ARMAND  CARREL 


211 


people,  of  whom  the  very  lowest  ranks  could  thus  act  ? 
a people,  too,  among  whom,  out  of  a few  large  towns, 
there  is  little  indigence ; where  almost  every  peasant 
had  his  piece  of  land,  where  the  number  of  landed 
proprietors  is  more  than  half  the  number  of  grown-up 
men  in  the  country,  and  where,  by  a natural  conse- 
quence, the  respect  for  the  right  of  property  amounts 
to  a superstition  ? If  among  such  a people  there 
30uld  be  danger  in  republicanism,  Carrel  saw  greater 
dangers,  which  could  only  be  averted  by  republicanism. 
He  saw  the  whole  Continent  armed,  and  ready  at  a 
moment’s  notice  to  pour  into  France  from  all  sides. 
He  thought,  and  it  was  the  principal  mistake  which  he 
3oi.  fitted,  that  this  collision  could  not  be  averted; 
md  he  thought,  which  was  no  mistake,  that  if  it  earned 
nor/hing  would  enable  France  to  bear  the  brunt  of  it 
but  that  which  had  carried  her  through  it  before, 
intense  popular  enthusiasm.  This  was  impossible 
tvith  Louis  Philippe  : and  if  a levy  en  masse  was  to  be 
igain  required  of  all  citizens,  it  must  be  in  a cause 
vhiah,  should  be  worth  fighting  for,  a cause  in  which 
ill  should  feel  that  they  had  an  equal  stake. 

were  the  reasons  which  made  Carrel  declare 
nr  ^republic.  They  are,  no  doubt,  refuted  by  the 
acMsjdat  the  public  mind  was  not  ripe  for  a republic 
md  would  not  have  it.  It  would  have  been  better’ 
probably,  instead  of  the  republican  standard,  to  have 
raised,  as  Carrel  afterwards  did,  that  of  a large  parlia- 
mentary reform.  But  the  public  as  yet  were  still  less 
ima*-  ■gjto  join  in  this  demand  than  in  the  other.  A 
•eprx^c  would  have  brought  this  among  other  things 
md  although,  by  professing  republicanism,  there  was 
anger  of  alarming  the  timid,  there  was  the  advantage 
)i  besmg  able  to  appeal  to  a feeling  already  general  and 
leepiy  rooted,  the  national  aversion  to  the  principle  of 
rereditary  privileges.  The  force  of  this  aversion  was 
dearly  seen,  when  it  extorted  even  from  Louis  Philippe 
he  abolition  of  the  hereditary  peerage  : and  in  choos- 
es a point  of  attack  which  put  this  feeling  on  his  side 
carrel  did  not  show  himself  a bad  tactician. 

14—2 


212 


ARMAND  CAEREL 


Nor  was  it  so  clear  at  that  time  that  the  public  mind 
was  not  ripe.  Opinion  advances  quickly  in  times  of 
revolution  ; at  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  it  had  set 
in  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  what  was  called  the 
“movement”;  and  the  manifestation  of  public  feeling 
at  the  funeral  of  General  Lamar que,  in  June,  1832, 
was  such,  that  many  competent  judges  think  it  must 
have  been  yielded  to,  and  the  King  must  have  changed 
his  policy,  but  for  the  unfortunate  collision  which 
occurred  on  that  day  between  the  people  and  the 
troops,  which  produced  a conflict  that  lasted  two  days, 
and  led  to  the  memorable  ordonnance  placing  Paris 
under  martial  law.  On  this  occasion  the  responsible 
editor  of  the  National  was  tried  on  a capital  charge  for 
an  article  of  Carrel’s,  published  just  before  the  conflict, 
and  construed  as  an  instigation  to  rebellion.  He  was 
acquitted  not  only  of  the  capital,  but  of  the  minor  * 
offence  ; and  it  was  proved  on  the  trial,  from  an  official 
report  of  General  Pajol,  the  officer  in  command,  that 
the  conflict  began  on  the  side  of  the  military,  who 
attacked  the  people  because  (as  at  the  funeral  of  our 
Queen  Caroline)  an  attempt  was  made  to  change  the 
course  of  the  procession,  and  carry  Lamarque’s  remains 
to  the  Pantheon.  But,  the  battle  once  begun,  many 
known  republicans  had  joined  in  it ; they  had  fought  j 
with  desperation,  and  the  blame  was  generally  thrown 
upon  them ; from  this  time  the  fear  of  emeutes  spread1 
among  the  trading  classes,  and  they  rallied  round  the| 
throne  of  Louis  Philippe. 

Though  the  tide  now  decidedly  turned  in  iavour  of  i 
the  party  of  resistance,  and  the  moderate  opposition ! 
headed  by  M.  Odilon  Barrot  and  M.  Mauguin  lost  the  ! 
greater  part  of  its  supporters,  the  republican  opposition 
continued  for  some  time  longer  to  increase  in  strength  : 
and  Carrel,  becoming  more  and  more  indisputably  at 
the  head  of  it,  rose  in  influence,  and  became  more  and : 
more  an  object  of  popular  attention. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1888  that  we  first  saw 
Carrel.  He  was  then  at  the  height  of  his  reputation,: 
and  prosperity  had  shed  upon  him,  as  it  oftenest  does 


ARxMAND  CARREL 


213 


upon  the  strongest  minds,  only  its  best  influences.  An 
extract  from  a letter  written  not  long  after  will  convey 
in  its  freshness  the  impression  which  he  then  communi- 
cated to  an  English  observer. 

“ I knew  Carrel  as  the  most  powerful  journalist  in 
France,  sole  manager  of  a paper  which,  while  it  keeps 
aloof  from  all  coterie  influence,  and  from  the  actively 
revolutionary  part  of  the  republican  body,  has  for  some 
time  been  avowedly  republican  ; and  I knew  that  he 
was  considered  a vigorous,  energetic  man  of  action,  who 
would  always  have  courage  and  conduct  in  an  emer- 
gency. Knowing  thus  much  of  him,  I was  ushered  into 
the  National  office,  where  I found  six  or  seven  of  the 
innumerable  redacteurs  who  belong  to  a French  paper, 
tall,  dark-haired  men,  with  formidable  moustaches,  and 
looking  fiercely  republican.  Carrel  was  not  there  ; and 
after  waiting  some  time,  I was  introduced  to  a slight 
young  man,  with  extremely  polished  manners,  no 
moustaches  at  all,  and  apparently  fitter  for  a drawing- 
room than  a camp  ; this  was  the  commander-in-chief 
of  those  formidable- looking  champions.  But  it  was 
impossible  to  be  five  minutes  in  his  company  without 
perceiving  that  he  was  accustomed  to  ascendancy,  and 
so  accustomed  as  not  to  feel  it.  Instead  of  the  eager- 
ness and  impetuosity  which  one  finds  in  most  French- 
men, his  manner  is  extremely  deliberate  : without  any 
affectation,  he  speaks  in  a sort  of  measured  cadence, 
and  in  a manner  of  which  Mr.  Carlyle’s  words,  4 quiet 
emphasis,’  are  more  characteristic  than  of  any  man  I 
know  ; there  is  the  same  quiet  emphasis  in  his  writings  : 
— a man  singularly  free,  if  we  may  trust  appearances, 
from  self-consciousness ; simple,  graceful,  at  times 
almost  infantinely  playful ; and  combining  perfect  self- 
reliance  with  the  most  unaffected  modesty ; always 
pursuing  a path  of  his  own  (‘  Je  n’ aime  pas,’  said  he  to 
me  one  day,  4 d marcher  en  troujpeau  ’),  occupying  a 
midway  position,  facing  one  way  towards  the  sup- 
porters of  monarchy  and  an  aristocratic  limitation  of 
the  suffrage,  with  whom  he  will  have  no  compromise, 
on  the  other  towards  the  extreme  republicans,  who 


214 


ARMAND  CARREL 


have  anti-property  doctrines,  and  instead  of  his  United 
States  republic,  want  a republic  after  the  fashion  of 
the  Convention,  with  something  like  a dictatorship 
in  their  own  hands.  He  calls  himself  a Conservative 
Republican  (V opinion  republicaine  conservatrice ) ; not 
but  that  he  sees  plainly  that  the  present  constitution  of 
society  admits  of  many  improvements,  but  he  thinks 
they  can  only  take  place  gradually,  or  at  least  that 
philosophy  has  not  yet  matured  them  ; and  he  would 
rather  hold  back  than  accelerate  the  political  revolu- 
tion which  he  thinks  inevitable,  in  order  to  leave 
time  for  ripening  those  great  questions,  chiefly  affect- 
ing the  constitution  of  property  and  the  condition 
of  the  working  classes,  which  would  press  for  a 
solution  if  a revolution  were  to  take  place.  As  for 
himself,  he  says  that  he  is  not  un  horrnne  special , 
that  his  metier  de  journaliste  engrosses  him  too  much 
to  enable  him  to  study,  and  that  he  is  profoundly  ig-  ♦ 
norant  of  much  upon  which  he  would  have  to  decide 
if  he  were  in  power  ; and  could  do  nothing  but  bring 
together  a body  genuinely  representative  of  the  people, 
and  assist  in  carrying  into  execution  the  dictates  of 
their  united  wisdom.  This  is  modest  enough  in  the 
man  who  would  certainly  be  President  of  the  Republic, 
if  there  were  a republic  within  five  years,  and  the 
extreme  party  did  not  get  the  upper  hand.  He  seems 
to  know  well  what  he  does  know : I have  met  with  no 
such  views  of  the  French  Revolution  in  any  book,  as  I 
have  heard  from  him.” 

This  is  a first  impression,  but  it  was  confirmed  by ) 
all  that  we  afterwards  saw  and  learnt.  Of  all  distin- 
guished Frenchmen  whom  we  have  known,  Carrel,  in 
manner,  answered  most  to  Coleridge’s  definition  of  the 
manner  of  a gentleman,  that  which  shows  respect  to 
others  in  such  a way  as  implies  an  equally  habitual  and 
secure  reliance  on  their  respect  to  himself.  Carrel’s 
manner  was  not  of  the  self-asserting  kind,  like  that  of 
many  of  the  most  high-bred  Frenchmen,  who  succeed 
perfectly  in  producing  the  effect  they  desire,  but  who 
seem  to  be  desiring  it : Carrel  seemed  never  to  concern 


ARMAND  CARREL 


215 


himself  about  it,  but  to  trust  to  what  he  was,  for  what 
he  would  appear  to  be.  This  had  not  always  been  the 
case ; and  we  learn  from  M.  Nisard,  that  in  the  time 
of  his  youth  and  obscurity  he  was  sensitive  as  to  the 
consideration  shown  him,  and  susceptible  of  offence. 
It  was  not  in  this  only  that  he  was  made  better 
by  being  better  appreciated.  Unlike  vulgar  minds, 
whose  faults,  says  M.  Nisard,  “ augment  in  proportion 
as  their  talents  obtain  them  indulgence,  it  was  evident 
to  all  his  friends  that  his  faults  diminished,  in  propor- 
tion as  his  brilliant  qualities,  and  the  celebrity  they 
gave  him,  increased.” 

One  of  the  qualities  which  we  were  most  struck  with 
in  Carrel  was  his  modesty.  It  was  not  that  common 
modesty,  which  is  but  the  negation  of  arrogance  and 
overweening  pretension.  It  was  the  higher  quality,  of 
which  that  is  but  a small  part.  It  was  the  modesty 
of  one  who  knows  accurately  what  he  is,  and  what  he 
is  equal  to,  never  attempts  anything  which  requires 
qualities  that  he  has  not,  and  admires  and  values  no 
less,  and  more  if  it  be  reasonable  to  do  so,  the  things 
which  he  cannot  do,  than  those  which  he  can.  It  was 
most  unaffectedly  that  he  disclaimed  all  mastery  of  the 
details  of  politics.  I understand,  he  said,  the  prin- 
ciples of  a representative  government.  But  he  said, 
and  we  believe  him  to  have  sincerely  thought,  that 
when  once  a genuinely  representative  legislature  should 
have  been  assembled,  his  function  would  be  at  an  end. 
It  would  belong  to  more  instructed  men,  he  thought, 
to  make  laws  for  France  ; he  could  at  most  be  of  use 
in  defending  her  from  attack,  and  in  making  her  laws 
obeyed.  In  this  Carrel  did  himself  less  than  justice, 
for  though  he  was  not,  as  he  truly  said,  un  liomme 
special , though  he  had  not  profoundly  studied  political 
economy  or  jurisprudence,  no  man  ever  had  a greater 
gift  of  attaching  to  himself  men  of  special  acquirements, 
or  could  discern  more  surely  what  man  was  fit  for  what 
thing.  And  that  is  the  exact  quality  wanted  in  the 
head  of  an  administration.  Like  Mirabeau,  Carrel  had 
a natural  gift  for  being  Prime  Minister ; like  Mirabeau, 


216 


ARMAND  CARREL 


he  could  make  men  of  all  sorts,  even  foreigners,  and 
men  who  did  not  think  themselves  inferior  to  him  but 
only  different,  feel  that  they  could  have  been  loyal  to 
him — that  they  could  have  served  and  followed  him  in 
life  and  death,  and  marched  under  his  orders  wherever 
he  chose  to  lead : sure,  with  him,  of  being  held  worth 
whatever  they  were  worth,  of  having  their  counsels 
listened  to  by  an  ear  capable  of  appreciating  them,  of 
having  the  post  assigned  to  them  for  which  they  were 
fittest,  and  a commander  to  whom  they  could  trust  for 
bringing  them  off  in  any  embarrassment  in  which  he 
could  ever  engage  them. 

Shortly  after  we  first  knew  Carrel,  we  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  judging  him  in  one  of  the  most  trying 
situations  in  which  the  leading  organ  of  a Movement 
party  could  be  placed ; and  the  manner  in  which  he 
conducted  himself  in  it,  gave  us  the  exalted  idea  which 
we  never  afterwards  lost,  both  of  his  nobleness  of 
character,  and  of  his  eminent  talents  as  a political 
leader. 

A small  and  extreme  section  of  the  republican  body, 
composed  of  men,  some  of  them  highly  accomplished, 
many  of  them  pure  in  purpose  and  full  of  courage  and 
enthusiasm,  but  without  that  practicalness  which  dis- 
tinguished Carrel, — more  highly  endowed  with  talent 
for  action,  than  with  judgment  for  it, — had  formed 
themselves  into  a society,  which  placed  itself  in  com- 
munication with  the  discontented  of  the  labouring 
classes,  and  got  under  their  command  the  greater  part 
of  the  insurrectionary  strength  of  the  party.*  These 

* The  following  extract  from  the  letter  already  quoted, 
contains  a picture  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  these 
men.  We  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  a specimen  of 
the  rest,  for  he  is  as  completely  an  individual  as  Carrel : — 
“A  man  whose  name  is  energy;  who  cannot  ask  you  the 
commonest  question  but  in  so  decided  a manner  that  he 
makes  you  start : who  impresses  you  with  a sense  of  irre- 
sistible power  and  indomitable  will ; you  might  fancy  him  an 
incarnation  of  Satan,  if  he  were  your  enemy  or  the  enemy  of 
your  party,  and  if  you  had  not  associated  with  him  and  seen 
how  full  of  sweetness  and  amiableness  and  gentleness  he  is. 


AEMAND  CAEEEL 


217 


men  raised  the  cry  of  social  reform,  and  a modifi- 
cation of  the  constitution  of  property, — ideas  which 
the  St.  Simonians  had  set  afloat,  in  connexion  with  & 
definite  scheme,  and  with  speculative  views  the  most 
enlarged,  and  in  several  respects  the  most  just,  that 
had  ever  been  connected  with  Utopianism.  But  these 
republicans  had  no  definite  plan  ; the  ideas  were  com- 
paratively vague  and  indeterminate  in  their  minds,  yet 
were  sincerely  entertained,  and  did  not,  whatever 
ignorant  or  cowardly  persons  might  suppose,  mean 
plunder  for  themselves  and  their  associates.  The 
Society  published  a manifesto,  in  which  these  aspira- 
tions were  dimly  visible,  and  in  which  they  reprinted, 
with  their  adhesion,  a Declaration  of  the  Eights  of 
man,  proposed  by  Eobespierre  in  the  National  Conven- 
tion, and  by  that  body  rejected.  This  document  was 

. . . His  notion  of  duty  is  that  of  a Stoic  ; he  conceives  it 
as  something  quite  infinite,  and  having  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  happiness,  something  immeasurably  above  it : a kind 
of  half  Manichean  in  his  views  of  the  universe  : according  to 
him,  man’s  life  consists  of  one  perennial  and  intense  struggle 
against  the  principle  of  evil,  which  but  for  that  struggle 
would  wholly  overwhelm  him : generation  after  generation 
carries  on  this  battle,  with  little  success  as  yet ; he  believes 
in  perfectibility  and  progressiveness,  but  thinks  that  hitherto 
progress  has  consisted  only  in  removing  some  of  the  impedi- 
ments to  good,  not  in  realizing  the  good  itself : that,  never- 
theless, the  only  satisfaction  which  man  can  realize  for 
himself  is  in  battling  with  this  evil  principle,  and  over- 
powering it ; that  after  evils  have  accumulated  for  centuries,, 
there  sometimes  comes  one  great  clearing-off,  one  day  of 
reckoning  called  a revolution  : that  it  is  only  on  such  rare 
occasions,  very  rarely  indeed  on  any  others,  that  good  men 
get  into  power,  and  then  they  ought  to  seize  the  opportunity 
for  doing  all  they  can  : that  any  government  which  is  boldly 
attacked,  by  ever  so  small  a minority,  may  be  overthrown,  and 
that  is  his  hope  with  respect  to  the  present  government.  He 
is  much  more  accomplished  than  most  of  the  political  men 
I have  seen  ; has  a wider  range  of  ideas,  converses  on  art,  and 
most  subjects  of  general  interest : always  throwing  all  he  has 
to  say  into  a few*  brief  energetic  sentences,  as  if  it  was 
contrary  to  his  nature  to  expend  one  superfluous  word.” 

There  can  be  no  indelicacy  in  now  saying,  that  the  original 
of  this  picture  was  Godefroi  Cavaignac. 


218 


AEMAND  CAEEEL 


harmless  enough,  and  we  could  not  see  in  it  any  of  the 
anti-property  doctrines  that  appeared  to  be  seen  by 
everybody  else,  for  Paris  was  convulsed  with  appre- 
hension on  the  subject.  But  whether  it  was  the  name 
of  Eobespierre,  or  the  kind  of  superstition  which  attaches 
to  the  idea  of  property  in  France,  or  that  the  mani- 
festo was  considered  a preliminary  to  worse  things  sup- 
posed to  be  meditated  by  its  authors,  the  alarm  of  the 
middle  classes  was  now  thoroughly  excited : they  be- 
came willing  to  join  with  any  men  and  any  measures, 
in  order  to  put  down  not  only  this,  but  every  other 
kind  of  republicanism ; and  from  this  time,  in  reality, 
dates  the  passionate  resistance  to  the  democratic  move- 
ment, which,  with  the  assistance  of  Fieschi,  was  im- 
proved into  the  laws  of  September,  1835,  by  which 
laws,  and  by  the  imprisonment  and  exile  of  its  most 
active  members,  the  republican  party  has  been  for  the 
present  silenced. 

The  conduct  by  which  the  prospects  of  the  popular 
party  were  thus  compromised,  Carrel  had  from  the 
first  disapproved.  The  constitution  of  property  ap- 
peared to  him  a subject  for  speculative  philosophers, 
not  for  the  mass ; he  did  not  think  that  the  present 
idea  of  property,  and  the  present  arrangements  of  it, 
would  last  for  ever  unchanged,  through  the  progressive 
changes  of  society  and  civilization  ; but  he  believed 
that  any  improvement  of  them  would  be  the  work  of 
a generation,  and  not  of  an  hour.  Against  the  other 
peculiar  views  of  this  revolutionary  party  he  had  com- 
bated both  in  private  and  in  the  National . He  had 
taken  no  part  in  their  projects  for  arriving  at  a republic 
by  an  insurrection.  He  had  set  his  face  against  their 
notion  of  governing  by  an  active  minority,  for  the  good 
of  the  majority,  but  if  necessary  in  opposition  to  its 
will,  and  by  a provisional  despotism  that  was  to  ter- 
minate some  day  in  a free  government.  A free,  full, 
and  fair  representation  of  the  people  was  his  object ; 
full  opportunity  to  the  nation  to  declare  its  will — the 
perfect  submission  of  individual  crotchets  to  that  will. 
And  without  condemning  the  Eepublic  of  the  Con- 


ARMAND  CARREL 


219 


vention  under  the  extraordinary  circumstances  which 
accompanied  its  brief  career,  he  preferred  to  cite  as 
an  example  the  Republic  of  the  United  States;  not  that 
he  thought  it  perfect,  nor  even  a model  which  France 
ought  in  all  respects  to  imitate,  but  because  it  presented 
or  seemed  to  present  to  France  an  example  of  what 
she  most  wanted,  — protection  to  all  parties  alike, 
limitation  of  the  power  of  the  magistrate,  and  fairness 
as  between  the  majority  and  the  minority. 

In  the  newspaper  warfare,  of  an  unusually  vehe- 
ment character,  stirred  up  by  the  manifesto  of  the 
revolutionary  republicans,  Carrel  was  the  last  of  the 
journalists  to  declare  himself.  He  took  some  days  to 
consider  what  position  it  most  became  him  to  assume. 
He  did  not  agree  in  the  conclusions  of  this  party,  while 
he  had  just  enough  of  their  premises  in  common  with 
them,  to  expose  him  to  misrepresentation.  It  was 
incumbent  on  him  to  rescue  himself,  and  the  great 
majority  of  the  popular  party,  from  responsibility  for 
opinions  which  they  did  not  share,  and  the  imputation 
of  which  was  calculated  to  do  them  so  much  injury. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  party  could  not  afford  to  lose 
these  able  and  energetic  men,  and  the  support  of  that 
portion  of  the  working  classes  who  had  given  their 
confidence  to  them.  The  men,  too,  were  many  of  them 
his  friends  ; he  knew  them  to  be  good  men,  superior 
men,  men  who  were  an  honour  to  their  opinions,  and 
he  could  not  brook  the  cowardice  of  letting  them  be 
run  down  by  a popular  cry.  After  mature  delibera- 
tion, he  published  in  the  National  a series  of  articles, 
admirable  for  their  nobleness  of  feeling  and  delicacy 
and  dexterity  in  expression : in  which,  without  a single 
subterfuge,  without  deviating  in  a word  from  the  most 
open  and  straightforward  sincerity,  he  probed  the 
question  to  the  bottom,  and  contrived  with  the  most 
exquisite  address,  completely  to  separate  himself  from 
all  that  was  objectionable  in  the  opinions  of  the  mani- 
festo, and  at  the  same  time  to  present  both  the  opinions 
and  the  men  in  the  most  advantageous  light,  in  which, 
without  disguising  his  disagreement,  it  was  possible  to 


220 


ARMAND  CAKREL 


place  them.  These  were  triumphs  which  belonged  only 
to  Carrel ; it  was  on  such  occasions  that  he  showed, 
though  in  a bloodless  field,  the  qualities  of  a consum- 
mate general. 

In  the  deliberations  of  the  republican  party  among 
themselves,  Carrel  was  more  explicit.  The  society 
which  issued  the  manifesto,  and  which  was  called  the 
Society  of  the  Rights  of  Man,  made  an  overture  to  a 
larger  society,  that  for  the  Protection  of  the  Liberty  of 
the  Press,  which  represented  all  the  shades  of  repub- 
licanism, and  invited  them  to  adopt  the  manifesto. 
The  committee  or  council  of  the  association  was  con- 
vened to  take  the  proposal  into  consideration : and 
Carrel,  though  on  ordinary  occasions  he  absented  him- 
self from  the  proceedings  of  such  bodies,  attended.  At 
this  deliberation  we  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  present, 
and  we  shall  never  forget  the  impression  we  received 
of  the  talents  both  of  Carrel  and  of  the  leader  of  the 
more  extreme  party,  M.  Cavaignac.  Carrel  displayed 
the  same  powerful  good  sense,  and  the  same  spirit  of 
conciliation,  in  discussing  with  that  party  his  differences 
from  them,  which  he  had  shown  in  his  apology  for 
them  to  the  public.  With  the  superiority  of  a really 
comprehensive  mind,  he  placed  himself  at  their  point 
of  view  ; laid  down  in  more  express  and  bolder  terms 
than  they  had  done  themselves,  and  in  a manner 
which  startled  men  who  were  esteemed  to  go  much 
farther  than  Carrel,  the  portion  of  philosophic  truth 
which  there  was  in  the  premises  from  which  they  had 
drawn  their  erroneous  conclusions  ; and  left  them  less 
dissatisfied  than  pleased,  that  one  who  differed  from 
them  so  widely,  agreed  with  them  in  so  much  more  than 
they  expected,  and  could  so  powerfully  advocate  a por- 
tion of  their  views.  The  result  was  that  Carrel  was 
chosen  to  draw  up  a report  to  the  society,  on  the 
manifesto,  and  on  the  invitation  to  adopt  it.  His 
report,  in  which  he  utters  his  whole  mind  on  the  new 
ideas  of  social  reform  considered  in  reference  to  prac- 
tice, remained  unpublished : Carrel  did  not  proclaim 
unnecessarily  to  the  world  the  differences  in  his  own 


ARMAND  CARREL 


221 


party,  but  preferred  the  prudent  maxim  of  Napoleon, 
il  faut  laver  notre  linge  sale  chez  nous.  But  at  a 
later  period,  when  the  chiefs  of  the  extreme  party  were 
in  prison  or  in  banishment,  the  republican  cause  for 
the  present  manifestedly  lost,  himself  publicly  calum- 
niated (for  from  what  calumny  is  he  sacred  whom  a 
government  detests!)  as  having  indirectly  instigated 
the  Fieschi  atrocity,  and  his  house  searched  for  papers 
on  pretence  of  ascertaining  if  he  was  concerned  in  it, 
which  the  cowardly  hypocrites  who  sought  to  involve 
him  in  the  odium  never  themselves  even  in  imagina- 
tion conceived  to  be  possible;  at  this  time,  when  no 
one  could  any  longer  be  injured  by  setting  his  past 
conduct  in  its  true  light,  Carrel  published  his  Report 
on  the  Robespierre  Manifesto : and  under  the  title  of 
Extrait  du  dossier  dlun  jprevenu  de  complicity  morale 
dans  V attentat  ' du  28  Juillet , it  subsists  for  any  one  to 
read,  a monument  at  once  of  the  far-sighted  intellect 
of  Carrel,  and  of  his  admirable  skill  in  expression. 

During  the  rapid  decline  of  the  republican  party,  we 
know  little  of  what  passed  in  Carrel’s  mind ; but  our 
knowledge  of  him  would  have  led  us  to  surmise  what 
M.  Nisard  states  to  be  the  fact,  that  he  became  sensible 
of  the  hopelessness  of  the  cause,  and  only  did  not 
abandon  the  advocacy  of  it  as  an  immediate  object, 
from  a sense  of  what  was  due  to  the  consistency  which 
a public  man  is  bound  to  maintain  before  the  public, 
when  it  is  the  sacrifice  of  his  interest  only,  and  not  of 
his  honesty,  that  it  requires  of  him  ; and  of  what  was 
due  to  the  simple-minded  men  whom  he  had  helped  to 
compromise,  and  whose  whole  stay  and  support,  the 
faith  which  kept  them  honest  men,  and  which  saved 
them  from  despair,  would  have  expired  within  them  if 
Carrel  had  deserted  them.  As  is  beautifully  said  by 
M.  Nisard,  “ to  resist  your  better  judgment ; never  to 
give  way,  nor  allow  your  misgivings  to  become  visible  ; 
to  stand  firm  to  principles  proclaimed  at  some  critical 
moment,  though  they  were  no  more  than  sudden  im- 
pressions or  rash  hopes  which  impatience  converted 
into  principles  ; not  to  abandon  simple  and  ardent 


222 


ARMAND  CARREL 


minds  in  the  path  in  which  you  have  yourself  engaged 
them,  and  to  whom  it  is  all  in  all ; purposely  to  repress 
your  doubts  and  hesitations,  and  coldly  to  call  down 
upon  your  own  head  fruitless  and  premature  perils,  in 
a cause  in  which  you  are  no  longer  enthusiastic,  in 
order  to  keep  up  the  confidence  of  your  followers : such 
is  the  price  which  must  be  paid  for  being  the  acknow- 
ledged chief  of  an  opinion  at  war  with  an  established 
government : — to  do  this,  and  to  do  it  so  gracefully  and 
unostentatiously,  that  those  who  recognise  you  as  their 
chief  shall  pardon  you  your  superiority  to  them ; and 
with  a talent  so  out  of  comparison,  that  no  self-love  in 
the  party  you  represent,  can  conceive  the  idea  of  equal- 
ling you.  During  more  than  four  years,  such  was  the 
task  Carrel  had  to  fulfil — and  he  fulfilled  it : never  for 
a single  moment  did  he  fall  below  his  position.  He 
never  incited  those  whom  he  was  not  resolved  to  follow ; 
and  in  many  cases  where  the  impulse  had  been  given 
not  by  him,  but  against  his  judgment,  he  placed  him- 
self at  the  head  of  those  whom  he  had  not  instigated. 
The  same  man  whose  modesty  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances allowed  the  title  of  chief  of  the  republican 
opinion  to  be  disputed  to  him,  seized  upon  it  in  time  of 
danger  as  a sign  by  which  the  stroke  of  the  enemy 
might  be  directed  to  him.  He  was  like  a general  who, 
having  by  his  courage  and  talents  advanced  to  the  first 
rank  of  the  army,  allows  his  merits  to  be  contested  in 
the  jealousies  and  gossipings  of  the  barrack,  but  in  a 
desperate  affair  assumes  the  command  in  chief  by  the 
right  of  the  bravest  and  most  able.” 

The  doubts  and  misgivings,  however,  which  Carrel 
is  stated  to  have  so  painfully  experienced,  never 
affected  the  truth  of  his  republican  principles,  but  at 
most  their  immediate  applicability.  The  very  founda- 
tion of  Carrel’s  character  was  sincerity  and  singleness 
of  purpose  ; and  nothing  would  have  induced  him  to 
continue  professing  to  others,  convictions  which  he  had 
ceased  to  entertain. 

While  Carrel  never  abandoned  republicanism,  it 
necessarily,  after  the  laws  of  September,  ceased  to  be 


ARMAN  D CARREL 


223 


so  prominent  as  before  in  his  journal.  He  felt  the 
necessity  of  rallying  under  one  standard  all  who  were 
agreed  in  the  essential  point,  opposition  to  the  oligarchy ; 
and  he  was  one  of  the  most  earnest  in  demanding  an 
extension  of  the  suffrage ; that  vital  pointy  the  all- 
importance  of  which  France  has  been  so  slow  to  recog- 
nise, and  which  it  is  so  much  to  be  regretted  that  he 
had  not  chosen  from  the  first,  instead  of  republicanism, 
to  be  the  immediate  aim  of  his  political  life. 

But  the  greatest  disappointment  which  Carrel  suf- 
fered was  the  defeat  not  of  republicanism,  but  of  what 
M.  Nisard  calls  his  “ theorie  du  droit  commun  ” ; those 
ideas  of  moderation  in  victory,  of  respect  for  the  law, 
and  for  the  rights  of  the  weaker  party,  so  much  more 
wanted  in  France  than  any  political  improvements 
which  are  possible  where  those  ideas  are  not. 

“ I affirm,”  says  M.  Nisard,  “ that  I have  never  seen 
him  in  real  bitterness  of  heart,  but  for  what  he  had  to- 
suffer  on  this  point ; and  on  this  subject  alone  his  dis- 
enchantment was  distressing.  His  good  sense,  the 
years  he  had  before  him,  the  chapter  of  accidents, 
would  have  given  him  patience  as  to  his  own  prospects, 
but  nothing  could  console  him  for  seeing  that  noble 
scheme  of  reciprocal  forbearance  compromised,,  and 
thrown  back  into  the  class  of  doctrines  for  ever  dis- 
putable— by  all  parties  equally;  by  the  government, 
by  the  country,  and  by  his  own  friends.  There , in 
fact,  was  the  highest  and  truest  inspiration  of  his  good 
sense,  the  most  genuine  instinct  of  his  generous  nature* 
All  Carrel  was  in  that  doctrine.  Never  would  he  have 
proved  false  to  that  noble  emanation  of  his  intellect 
and  of  his  heart.  . . . The  Revolution  of  July,  so  extra- 
ordinary among  revolutions  from  the  spectacle  of  a 
people  leaving  the  vanquished  at  full  liberty  to  inveigh 
against  and  even  to  ridicule  the  victory,  gave  ground 
to  hope  for  a striking  and  definitive  return  to  the  prin- 
ciple of  equal  law.  Carrel  made  himself  the  organ  of 
this  hope,  and  the  theorist  of  this  doctrine.  He  treated 
the  question  with  the  vigour  and  clearness  which  were 
usual  with  him.  He  opposed  to  the  examples,  so 


<224 


ARMAN  D CARREL 


numerous  in  the  last  fifty  years,  of  governments  which 
successively  perished  by  overstraining  their  powers, 
the  idea  of  a government  offering  securities  to  all 
parties  against  its  own  lawful  and  necessary  instinct 
of  self-preservation.  He  invoked  practical  reasons 
•exclusively,  denying  himself  rigidly  the  innocent  aid 
of  all  the  language  of  passion,  not  to  expose  his  noble 
theory  to  the  ironical  designation  of  Utopianism.  It 
was  these  views  which  gave  Carrel  so  many  friends 
in  all  parts  of  France,  and  in  all  places  where  the 
National  penetrated.  There  is,  apart  from  all  poli- 
tical parties,  a party  composed  of  all  those  who  are 
either  kept  by  circumstances  out  of  the  active  sphere 
of  politics,  or  who  are  too  enlightened  to  fling  them- 
selves into  it  in  the  train  of  a leader  who  is  only  recom- 
mended by  successes  in  parliament  or  in  the  press. 
How  many  men,  weary  of  disputes  about  forms  of 
government — incredulous  even  to  Carrel’s  admirable 
apologies  for  the  American  system. — quitting  the 
shadow  for  the  substance,  ranged  themselves  under 
that  banner  of  equal  justice  which  Carrel  had  raised, 
and  to  which  he  would  have  adhered  at  the  expense,  if 
necessary,  even  of  his  individual  opinions.  Testimonies 
of  adhesion  came  in  to  him  from  all  quarters,  which 
for  a moment  satisfied  his  utmost  wishes : and  I saw 
him  resigning  himself  to  be,  for  an  indeterminate 
period,  the  first  speculative  writer  of  his  country.  But 
errors  in  which  all  parties  had  their  share,  soon  cooled 
him.  It  was  a severe  shock.  Carrel  had  faith  in  these 
generous  views  ; he  had  adopted  them  with  stronger 
•conviction  perhaps  than  his  republican  theories,  to 
which  he  had  committed  himself  hastily,  and  under 
the  influence  of  temporary  events  rather  than  of  quiet 
and  deliberate  meditations.  ...  It  is  more  painful 
surely  to  a generous  mind  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  a 
generous  policy,  than  to  the  leader  of  a party  to  doubt 
that  his  opinions  have  a chance  of  prevailing  : Carrel 
had  both  disappointments  at  once. 

“The  affliction  of  Carrel  was  irreparable  from  the 
moment  when  he  remained  the  sole  defender  of  the 


ARMAND  CARREL 


225 


common  rights  of  all,  between  the  nation  which  from 
fear  made  a sacrifice  of  them  to  the  government,  and 
his  own  party,  which  cherished  secretly  thoughts  in- 
consistent with  them.  We  had  a long  conversation  on 
the  subject  a few  months  before  his  death,  in  a walk 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  I perceived  that  he  had 
almost  renounced  his  doctrine  as  a principle  capable 
of  present  application  : he  at  most  adhered  to  it  as  a 
Utopia,  from  pure  generosity,  and  perhaps  also  from 
the  feeling  of  his  own  strength.  Carrel  believed  that 
if  his  party  came  into  power,  he  would  have  the  force 
to  resist  the  temptation  of  arbitrary  authority,  and  not 
to  accept  it  even  from  the  hands  of  a majority  offering 
it  to  him  in  the  name  of  his  country.  But  a cause 
deferred  was  to  him  a lost  cause.  His  doubts  were 
equivalent  to  a defeat.  Though  this  principle  was  the 
most  disinterested  conviction  of  his  mind  and  the  best 
impulse  of  his  heart,  the  theories  of  men  of  action 
always  imply  in  their  own  minds  the  hope  of  a prompt 
reduction  to  practice.  From  the  moment  when  his 
doctrine  failed  as  a practicable  policy,  it  could  no 
longer  be  a doctrine  for  him.  Towards  the  end  of  his 
life  he  spoke  of  it  only  as  a result  of  the  progress  of 
improvement,  which  it  would  not  be  his  fate  to  live  to 
see,  and  which  perhaps  would  never  be  arrived  at.” 

We  can  conceive  few  things  more  melancholy  than 
the  spectacle  of  one  of  the  noblest  men  in  France,  if 
not  the  noblest,  dying  convinced  against  his  will,  that 
his  country  is  incapable  of  freedom ; and  under  what- 
soever institutions,  has  only  the  choice,  what  man  or 
what  party  it  will  be  under  the  despotism  of.  But  we 
have  not  Carrel’s  deliberate  opinion ; we  have  but  his 
feelings  in  the  first  agony  of  his  disenchantment.  That 
multitude  of  impartial  men  in  all  quarters  of  France, 
who  responded  for  a short  time  so  cordially  to  his 
voice,  will  again  claim  the  liberties  which,  in  a moment 
of  panic,  they  have  surrendered  to  a government  they 
neither  love  nor  respect,  and  which  they  submit  to  and 
even  support  against  its  enemies,  solely  in  despair  of  a 
better. 


15 


226 


ARMAN D CARREL 


But  Carrel  was  not  one  of  those  whom  disappoint- 
ment paralyzes ; unsuccessful  in  one  worthy  object,  he 
always  found  another.  The  newspaper  press,  gagged 
by  the  September  laws,  no  longer  afforded  him  the 
same  instrument  of  power,  and  he  meditated  a total  or 
partial  retirement  from  it,  either  to  recruit  himself  by 
study,  se  retremper  par  l' etude,  for  which,  even  at  an 
earlier  period,  he  had  expressed  to  us  an  earnest  longing, 
or  to  write  what  he  had  for  some  time  had  in  view,  the 
History  of  Napoleon.  But  he  would  have  been  called 
from  these  pursuits  into  a more  active  life  ; at  the  im- 
pending general  election,  he  would  have  been  chosen  a 
deputy ; having  already  been  once  put  up  without  his 
knowledge,  and  defeated  only  by  one  vote.  What 
course  he  would  have  struck  out  for  himself  in  the 
Chamber,  we  shall  never  know,  but  it  is  not  possible  to 
doubt  that  it  would  have  been  an  original  one,  and  that 
it  would  have  been  brilliant,  and  most  beneficial  to  his 
country.  So  immensely  the  superior  of  all  his  rivals 
in  the  qualities  which  create  influence,  he  would  prob- 
ably have  drawn  round  him  by  degrees  all  the  sections 
of  the  popular  party;  would  have  given,  if  any  one 
could,  unity,  decision,  and  definiteness  to  their  vague 
plans  and  divided  counsels ; and  the  destiny  which  he 
could  not  conquer  for  himself  as  President  of  a Re- 
public, he  might  one  day  have  gloriously  fulfilled  as 
minister  under  a reformed  legislature,  if  any  such 
reform  could  in  France  (which  he  regarded  as  impos- 
sible) render  royalty  compatible  with  the  prevalence  of 
the  popular  interest.  These  are  vain  dreams  now ; but 
the  time  was,  when  it  was  not  foolish  to  indulge  in 
them.  Such  dreams  were  the  comfort  of  those  who 
knew  him,  and  who  knew  how  ill  his  country  could 
supply  his  place.  He  was  at  once  the  Achilles  and  the 
Ulysses  of  the  democratic  party : and  the  star  of  hope 
for  France  in  any  new  convulsions,  was  extinguished 
when  Carrel  died. 

It  is  bitter  to  lose  such  a man ; bitterest  of  all  to  lose 
him  in  a miserable  duel.  But  ill  shall  it  fare  with  the 
government  which  can  rejoice  in  the  death  of  such  an 


ARMAND  CARREL 


227 


enemy,  and  the  time  may  come  when  it  would  give  its 
most  precious  treasures  to  recall  from  the  grave  the 
victim  whom,  whether  intentionally  on  its  part  or  not, 
its  enmity  has  sent  thither.  The  heir  to  the  French 
throne  is  reported  to  have  said  of  Carrel’s  death,  that 
it  was  a loss  to  all  parties ; he,  at  least,  will  probably 
live  to  find  it  so.  Such  a government  as  that  now 
existing  in  France  cannot  last;  and  whether  it  end 
peacefully  or  violently,  whether  the  return  tide  of 
public  opinion  shall  bear  the  present  reigning  family 
aloft  on  its  surface,  or  whelm  them  in  its  depths, 
bitterly  will  that  man  be  missed,  who  alone,  perhaps, 
would  have  been  capable  of  saying  to  that  tremendous 
power,  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther.  There 
are  in  France  philosophers  superior  to  Carrel,  but  no 
man  known  by  such  past  services,  equal  like  him  to 
the  great  practical  questions  which  are  coming,  and 
whose  whole  nature  and  character  speak  out  like  his, 
to  the  best  qualities  and  noblest  sympathies  of  the 
French  mind.  He  had  all  that  was  necessary  to  give 
him  an  advocate  in  every  French  breast,  and  to  make 
all  young  and  ardent  Frenchmen  see  in  him  the  ideal 
of  their  own  aspirations,  the  expression  of  what  in  their 
best  moments  they  would  wish  to  be. 

His  death  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  the  vulgar 
deaths  of  those  who,  hemmed  in  between  two  coward- 
ices, can  resist  the  fear  of  death,  but  not  the  meaner 
fear  of  the  tongues  of  their  fellow-creatures.  His  duel 
was  a consequence  of  the  system  which  he  adopted  for 
repelling  the  insults  to  which,  as  a journalist  identifying 
himself  with  his  journal,  he  was  peculiarly  exposed ; 
and  which,  not  only  for  his  influence  as  a public  man, 
but  for  the  respectability  of  the  press,  and  for  pre- 
serving that  high  tone  of  public  discussion  from  which 
he  himself  never  swerved,  he  thought  it  necessary  not 
to  pass  unpunished.  His  system,  alas  1 is  sufficiently 
refuted  by  its  having  cost  so  precious  a life : but  it  was 
his  system.  “He  often  repeated,”  says  M.  Littre, 
“that  the  National  had  no  'procureur  du  roi  to  defend 
it,  and  that  it  must  be  its  own  defender.  He  was 

15—2 


228 


ARMAND  CARREL 


persuaded,  too,  that  nothing  gives  more  food  to  political 
enmities,  or  renders  them  more  capable  of  reaching 
the  last  excesses,  than  the  impunity  of  calumny  : he 
contended  that  the  men  of  the  Revolution  had  pre- 
pared their  own  scaffold  by  not  imposing  silence  on 
their  defamers  : and  had  it  been  necessary  for  him  to 
expose  himself  even  more  than  he  did,  he  never  would 
have  suffered,  in  whatever  situation  he  might  have  been 
placed,  that  his  name  and  character  should  with  im- 
punity be  trifled  with.  This  was  his  answer  when  he 
was  blamed  for  risking  his  life  too  readily ; and  now, 
when  he  has  fallen,  it  is  fit,  in  defending  his  memory 
from  a reproach  which  grief  has  wrung  from  persons 
who  loved  him,  to  recall  the  words  he  uttered  on  his 
death-bed : ‘ The  standard-bearer  of  the  regiment  is 
always  the  most  exposed.5” 

He  died  a martyr  to  the  morality  and  dignity  of 
public  discussion : and  though  even  that  cause  would 
have  been  far  better  served  by  his  life  than  by  such  a 
death,  he  was  the  victim  of  his  virtues,  and  of  that  low 
state  of  our  civilization,  after  all  our  boasting,  which 
has  not  yet  contrived  the  means  of  giving  to  a man 
whose  reputation  is  important  to  him,  protection 
against  insult,  but  leaves  him  to  seek  reparation  sword 
in  hand,  as  in  the  barbarous  ages.  While  he  lived,  he 
did  keep  up  in  the  press  generally,  something  of  that 
elevation  of  tone  which  distinguished  it  under  the 
Restoration,  but  which,  in  the  debordement  of  political 
and  literary  profligacy  since  the  Revolution  of  1880,  it 
had  become  difficult  to  preserve : and  all  we  know  of 
the  state  of  newspaper  discussion  since  his  death, 
exalts  our  sense  of  the  moral  influence  which  Carrel 
exercised  over  the  press  of  France. 

Carrel  was  of  middle  height,  slightly  made,  and  very 
graceful.  Like  most  persons  of  really  fine  faculties, 
he  carried  those  faculties  with  him  into  the  smallest 
things  ; and  did  not  disdain  to  excel,  being  qualified  to 
do  so,  in  things  which  are  great  only  to  little  men. 
Even  in  the  details  of  personal  equipments,  his  taste 


ARMAND  CARREL 


229 


was  watched  for  and  followed  by  the  amateurs  of  such 
matters.  He  was  fond  of  all  bodily  exercises,  and  had, 
says  M.  Nisard,  un  jpeu  de  tons  les  gouts  vifs , more  or 
less  of  all  strong  and  natural  inclinations ; as  might  be 
expected  from  his  large  and  vigorous  human  nature, 
the  foundation  of  strength  of  will,  and  which,  com- 
bined with  intellect  and  with  goodness,  constitutes 
greatness.  He  was  a human  being  complete  at  all 
points,  not  a fraction  or  frustum  of  one. 

“ The  distinctive  feature  of  his  character,”  says  M. 
Nisard,  “ was  his  unbounded  generosity.  In  whatever 
sense  we  understand  that  word,  whether  it  mean  the 
impulse  of  a man  who  devotes  himself,  or  merely 
pecuniary  liberality,  the  life  of  Carrel  gives  occasion 
for  applying  it  in  all  its  meanings.  All  the  actions 
of  his  public  life  are  marked  with  the  former  kind  of 
generosity.  His  errors  were  generally  acts  of  gene- 
rosity ill-calculated.  As  for  pecuniary  generosity,  no 
one  had  it  more,  or  of  a better  sort.  Carrel  could 
neither  refuse,  nor  give  little.”  There  are  stories  told 
of  him  like  those  told  of  Goldsmith,  or  any  other 
person  of  thoughtless  generosity.  As  is  often  the  case 
with  persons  of  strong  impulses,  he  was  of  a careless 
character  when  not  under  excitement,  and  his  inatten- 
tion sometimes  caused  inconvenience  to  himself,  and 
made  him  give  unintentional  offence  to  others.  But 
on  occasions  wThich  called  into  action  his  strong  will, 
he  had  the  eye  of  an  eagle : “he  seized  with  a glance, 
as  on  a field  of  battle,  the  whole  terrain  on  which  he 
was  placed  ; and  astonished  above  all  by  the  sureness 
of  the  instinct  with  which  he  divined  the  significance 
of  small  things.  Small  things,”  continues  M.  Littre, 
“ are  those  which  the  vulgar  do  not  perceive ; but  when 
such  things  have  produced  serious  effects,  pause,  quite 
disconcerted,  before  the  irrevocable  event  which  might 
so  easily  have  been  prevented.” 

His  conversation,  especially  on  political  subjects, 
M.  Nisard,  comparing  him  with  the  best  conversers  in 
a country  where  the  art  of  conversation  is  far  more 
cultivated  than  it  is  here,  declares  to  be  the  most  per- 


230 


ARMAND  CARREL 


feet  he  ever  heard : and  we  can  add  our  testimony  to 
his,  that  Carrel’s  writings  in  the  National  seemed  but 
the  continuation  of  his  conversation.  He  was  fond  of 
showing  that  he  could  do  equal  justice  to  all  sides  of  a 
question : and  he  would  “ take  up  a government  news- 
paper, or  one  of  a more  moderate  opposition  than  his 
own,  and  reading  the  article  of  the  day,  he  would 
adopt  its  idea,  and  complete  it  or  develop  it  in  the 
spirit  of  the  opinions  which  had  inspired  it.  At  other 
times  he  would  in  the  same  way  recompose  the  speeches 
in  the  Chamber.  ‘They  have  not  given,’  he  would  say, 

‘ the  best  reasons  for  their  opinions  ; this  would  have 
been  more  specious,  and  would  have  embarrassed  us 
more.5  His  facility  was  prodigious.  And  the  reasons 
he  gave  were  not  rhetorical  fallacies,  but  just  argu- 
ments. They  embodied  all  that  could  be  said  truly 
and  honourably  on  that  side  of  the  question.  By  this 
he  demonstrated  two  of  his  qualities,  vastly  superior  to 
mere  facility  in  arguing  for  the  sake  of  argument  : on 
the  one  hand,  his  knowledge  of  the  interests  of  all 
parties;  on  the  other,  his  real  esteem  for  what  w~as 
just  in  the  views  most  opposite  to  his  own.” 

We  have  marked  these  traits  of  character,  because 
they  help  to  complete  the  picture  of  what  Carrel  was, 
and,  while  they  give  reality  to  our  conception  of  him, 
and  bring  him  home  to  the  feelings  as  a being  of  our 
own  flesh  and  blood,  they  all  give  additional  insight 
into  those  great  qualities  which  it  is  the  object  of  this 
paper  to  commemorate.  The  mind  needs  such  ex- 
amples, to  keep  alive  in  it  that  faith  in  good,  without 
which  nothing  worthy  the  name  of  good  can  ever  be 
realized : it  needs  to  be  reminded  by  them  that  (as  is 
often  repeated  by  one  of  the  greatest  writers  of  our 
time)  man  is  still  man.  Whatever  man  has  been,  man 
may  be  ; whatever  of  heroic  the  heroic  ages,  whatever 
of  chivalrous  the  romantic  ages  have  produced,  is  still 
possible,  nay,  still  is , and  a hero  of  Plutarch  may  exist 
amidst  all  the  pettinesses  of  modern  civilization,  and 
with  all  the  cultivation  and  refinement,  and  the  analyz- 
ing and  questioning  spirit  of  the  modern  European 


ARMAND  CARREL 


231 


mind.  The  lives  of  those  are  not  lost,  who  have  lived 
enough  to  be  an  example  to  the  world;  and  though 
his  country  will  not  reap  the  blessings  his  life  might 
have  conferred  upon  it,  yet  while  the  six  years  fol- 
lowing the  Revolution  of  1830  shall  have  a place  in 
history,  the  memory  of  Armand  Carrel  will  not  utterly 
perish. 

“ Si  quis  piorum  manibus  locus ; si,  ut  sapientibus 
placet,  non  cum  corpore  extinguuntur  magnse  animae ; 
placide  quiescas,  nosque  ab  infirmo  desiderio  et  mulie- 
bribus  lamentis  ad  contemplationem  virtutum  tuarum 
voces,  quas  neque  lugeri,  neque  plangi  fas  est : admi- 
ratione  te  potius,  et  immortalibus  laudibus,  et  si  natura 
suppeditet,  similitudine  decorabimus.” 


A PROPHECY 


(FROM  a REVIEW  OF  “ LETTERS  FROM  PALMYRA.”  *) 

The  time  was,  when  it  was  thought  that  the  best  and 
most  appropriate  office  of  fictitious  narrative  was  to 
awaken  high  aspirations,  by  the  representation  in  in- 
teresting circumstances,  of  characters  conformable 
indeed  to  human  nature,  but  whose  actions  and  senti- 
ments were  of  a more  generous  and  loftier  cast  than 
are  ordinarily  to  be  met  with  by  everybody  in  every- 
day life.  But  nowadays  nature  and  probability  are 
thought  to  be  violated,  if  there  be  shown  to  the  reader, 
in  the  personages  with  whom  he  is  called  upon  to 
sympathize,  characters  on  a larger  scale  than  himself, 
or  than  the  persons  he  is  accustomed  to  meet  at  a 
dinner  or  a quadrille  party.  Yet,  from  such  repre- 
sentations, familiar  from  early  youth,  have  not  only 
the  noblest  minds  in  modern  Europe  derived  much  of 
what  made  them  noble,  but  even  the  commoner  spirits 
what  made  them  understand  and  respond  to  noble- 
ness. And  this  is  education.  It  would  be  well  if  the 
more  narrow-minded  portion,  both  of  the  religious  and 
of  the  scientific  education-mongers,  would  consider 
whether  the  books  which  they  are  banishing  from  the 
hands  of  youth,  were  not  instruments  of  national 
education  to  the  full  as  powerful  as  the  catalogues  of 
physical  facts  and  theological  dogmas  which  they  have 
substituted  — as  if  science  and  religion  were  to  be 
taught,  not  by  imbuing  the  mind  with  their  spirit,  but 
by  cramming  the  memory  with  summaries  of  their 
conclusions.  Not  what  a boy  or  a girl  can  repeat  by 
rote,  but  what  they  have  learnt  to  love  and  admire, 
is  what  forms  their  character.  The  chivalrous  spirit 
* London  and  Westminster  Review , January,  1838. 

232 


A PBOPHECY 


233 


has  almost  disappeared  from  books  of  education ; the 
popular  novels  of  the  day  teach  nothing  but  (what  is 
already  too  soon  learnt  from  actual  life)  lessons  from 
worldliness,  with  at  most  the  huckstering  virtues  which 
conduce  to  getting  on  in  the  world ; and  for  the  first 
time  perhaps  in  history,  the  youth  of  both  sexes  of 
the  educated  classes  are  universally  growing  up  un- 
romantic. What  will  come  in  mature  age  from  such  a 
youths  the  world  has  not  yet  had  time  to  see.  But  the 
world  may  rely  upon  it,  that  Catechisms,  whether 
Pinnock’s  or  the  Church  of  England’s,  will  be  found 
a poor  substitute  for  those  old  romances,  whether  of 
chivalry  or  of  faery,  which,  if  they  did  not  give  a true 
picture  of  actual  life,  did  not  give  a false  one,  since 
they  did  not  profess  to  give  any,  but  (what  was  much 
better)  filled  the  youthful  imagination  with  pictures  of 
heroic  men,  and  of  what  are  at  least  as  much  wanted, 
heroic  women.  The  book  before  us  does  this : and 
greatly  is  any  book  to  be  valued,  which  in  this  age, 
and  in  a form  suited  to  it,  does  its  part  towards  keeping 
alive  the  chivalrous  spirit,  which  was  the  best  part  of 
the  old  romances ; towards  giving  to  the  aspirations  of 
the  young  and  susceptible  a noble  direction,  and  keep- 
ing present  to  the  mind  an  exalted  standard  of  worth, 
by  placing  before  it  heroes  and  heroines  worthy  of  the 
name. 

It  is  an  additional  title  to  praise  in  this  author,  that 
his  great  women  are  imagined  in  the  very  contrary 
spirit  to  the  modern  cant,  according  to  which  an  heroic 
woman  is  supposed  to  be  something  intrinsically  dif- 
ferent from  the  best  sort  of  heroic  men.  It  was  not  so 
thought  in  the  days  of  Artemisia  or  Zenobia,  or  in  that 
era  of  great  statesmen  and  stateswomen,  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries,  when  the  daughters  of  royal 
houses  were  governors  of  provinces,  and  displayed, 
as  such,  talents  for  command  equal  to  any  of  their 
husbands  or  brothers  ; and  when  negotiations  which 
had  baffled  the  first  diplomatists  of  Francis  and  of 
Charles  Y.  were  brought  to  a successful  issue  by  the 
wisdom  and  dexterity  of  two  princesses.  The  book 


234 


A PKOPHECY 


before  us  is  in  every  line  a virtual  protest  against  the 
narrow  and  degrading  doctrine  which  has  grown  out 
of  the  false  refinement  of  later  times.  And  it  is  the 
author’s  avowed  belief,  that  one  of  the  innumerable 
great  purposes  of  Christianity  was  to  abolish  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  two  characters,  by  teaching  that 
neither  of  them  can  be  really  admirable  without  the 
qualities  supposed  to  be  distinctive  of  the  other,  and  by 
exhibiting,  in  the  person  of  its  Divine  Founder,  an 
equally  perfect  model  of  both. 


WRITINGS  OF  ALFRED  DE  VIGNY* 


In  the  French  mind  (the  most  active  national  mind 
in  Europe  at  the  present  moment)  one  of  the  most 
stirring  elements,  and  among  the  fullest  of  promise 
for  the  futurity  of  France  and  of  the  world,  is  the 
Royalist,  or  Car  list,  ingredient.  We  are  not  now 
alluding  to  the  attempts  of  M.  de  Genoude,  and  that 
portion  of  the  Carlist  party  of  which  the  Gazette  de 
France  is  the  organ,  to  effect  an  alliance  between 
legitimacy  and  universal  suffrage  ; nor  to  the  eloquent 
anathemas  hurled  against  the  existing  institutions  of 
society  by  a man  of  a far  superior  order,  the  Abbe  de 
la  Mennais,  whose  original  fervour  of  Roman  Catholic 
absolutism  has  given  place  to  a no  less  fervour  of 
Roman  Catholic  ultra-Radiealism.  These  things  too 
have  their  importance  as  symptoms,  and  even  intrin- 
sically are  not  altogether  without  their  value.  But 
we  would  speak  rather  of  the  somewhat  less  obvious 
inward  working,  which  (ever  since  the  revolution  of 
1830  annihilated  the  Carlist  party  as  a power  in  the 
State)  has  been  going  on  in  the  minds  of  that  accom- 
plished and  numerous  portion  of  the  educated  youth 
of  France,  whose  family  connexions  or  early  mental 
impressions  ranked  them  with  the  defeated  party ; 
who  had  been  brought  up,  as  far  as  the  age  permitted, 
in  the  old  ideas  of  monarchical  and  Catholic  France  ; 
were  allied  by  their  feelings  or  imaginations  with 
whatever  of  great  and  heroic  those  old  ideas  had 

* Consisting  of — 1.  Souvenirs  de  Servitude  et  de  Grandeur 
Militaire.  2.  Cinq-Mars ; ou,  une  Conjuration  sous  Louis 
XIII.  3.  Stello ; ou , les  Consultations  du  Docteur  Noir. 
4.  Po'emes.  5.  Le  More  de  Venise , tragedie  traduite  de  Shake- 
speare en  Vers  Francais.  6.  La  Mar ^ch ale  d’Ancre,  drame. 
7.  Chatterton,  drame. — London  and  Westminster  Review 
April,  1838. 


235 


236 


ALFBED  DE  VIGNY 


produced  in  the  past ; had  not  been  sullied  by  par- 
ticipation in  the  selfish  struggles  for  Court  favour  and 
power,  of  which  the  same  ideas  were  the  pretext  in 
the  present — and  to  whom  the  Three  Days  were 
really  the  destruction  of  something  which  they  had 
loved  and  revered,  if  not  for  itself,  at  least  for  the 
reminiscences  associated  with  it. 

These  reflections  present  themselves  naturally  when 
we  are  about  to  speak  of  the  writings  of  Alfred  de , 
Vigny,  one  of  the  earliest  in  date,  and  one  of  the  mostp 
genuine,  true-hearted,  and  irreproachable  in  tendency^’ 
and  spirit,  of  the  new  school  of  French  literature^ 
termed  the  romantic.  It  would,  in  fact,  be  impossibly 
to  understand  M.  de  Vigny’s  writings,  especially  th^. 
later  and  better  portion,  or  to  enter  sympathizing!^ 
into  the  peculiar  feelings  which  pervade  them,  without^ 
this  clue.  M.  de  Vigny  is,  in  poetry  and  art,  as  a stil^ 
more  eminent  man,  M.  de  Tocqueville,  is  in  philosophy, 
a result  of  the  influences  of  the  age  upon  a mind  and1 
character  trained  up  in  opinions  and  feelings  opposed 
to  those  of  the  age.  Both  these  writers,  educated  in 
one  set  of  views  of  life  and  society,  found,  when  they, 
attained  manhood,  another  set  predominant  in  the3 
world  they  lived  in,  and,  at  length,  after  1830,  en- 
throned in  its  high  places.  The  contradictions  theyt 
had  thus  to  reconcile — the  doubts  and  perplexities  and  - 
misgivings  which  they  had  to  find  the  means  of  over-^ 
coming  before  they  could  see  clearly  between  these^ 
cross-lights — were  to  them  that,  for  want  of  which  so3 
many  otherwise  well-educated  and  naturally-giftedR 
persons  grow  up  hopelessly  commonplace.  To  go^ 
through  life  with  a set  of  opinions  ready-made  andy 
provided  for  saving  them  the  trouble  of  thought,  was 
a destiny  which  could  not  be  theirs.  Unable  to  satisfy 
themselves  with  either  of  the  conflicting  formulas 
which  were  given  them  for  the  interpretation  of  what 
lay  in  the  world  before  them,  they  learnt  to  take 
formulas  for  what  they  were  worth,  and  to  look  into 
the  world  itself  for  the  philosophy  of  it.  They  looked 
with  both  their  eyes,  and  saw  much  there,  which  was 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


237 


neither  in  the  creed  they  had  been  taught,  nor  in  that 
which  they  found  prevailing  around  them  : much  that 
the  prejudices,  either  of  Liberalism  or  of  Royalism, 
amounted  to  a disqualification  for  the  perception  of, 
and  which  would  have  been  hid  from  themselves  if 
the  atmosphere  of  either  had  surrounded  them  both  in 
their  youth  and  in  their  maturer  years. 

That  this  conflict  between  a Royalist  education, 
md  the  spirit  of  the  modern  world,  triumphant  in 
uly,  1830,  must  have  gone  for  something  in  giving 
> the  speculations  of  a philosopher  like  M.  de  Tocque- 
dle  the  catholic  spirit  and  comprehensive  range 
hich  distinguish  them,  most  people  will  readily 
Imit.  But,  that  the  same  causes  must  have  exerted 
1 analogous  influence  over  a poet  and  artist,  such  as 
\lfred  de  Vigny  is  in  his  degree ; that  a political 
; evolution  can  have  given  to  the  genius  of  a poet  what 
orincipally  distinguishes  it — may  not  appear  so  obvious, 
at  least  to  those  who,  like  most  Englishmen,  rarely 
enter  into  either  politics  or  poetry  with  their  whole  soul. 
Worldly  advancement,  or  religion,  are  an  Englishman’s 
real  interests  : for  Politics,  except  in  connexion  with 
jne  of  those  two  objects,  and  for  Art,  he  keeps  only 
bye- corners  of  his  mind,  which  naturally  are  far  apart 
o’om  each  other ; and  it  is  but  a small  minority  among 
Englishmen  who  can  comprehend,  that  there  are 
Lations  among  whom  Politics,  or  the  pursuit  of  social 
well-being,  and  Poetry,  or  the  love  of  beauty  and 
)f  imaginative  emotion,  are  passions  as  intense,  as 
absorbing — influencing  as  much  the  whole  tendencies 
of  the  character,  and  constituting  as  large  a part  of 
the  objects  in  life  of  a considerable  portion  of  the 
cultivated  classes,  as  either  the  religious  feelings,  or 
those  of  worldly  interest.  Where  both  politics  and 
poetry,  instead  of  being  either  a trade  or  a pastime, 
are  taken  completely  au  serieux , each  will  be  more  or 
less  coloured  by  the  other ; and  that  close  relation 
between  an  author’s  politics  and  his  poetry,  which 
with  us  is  only  seen  in  the  great  poetic  figures  of  their 
age,  a Shelley,  a Byron,  or  a Wordsworth,  is  broadly 


288 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


conspicuous  in  France  (for  example),  through  the 
whole  range  of  her  literature. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  employ  a moment  in  con- 
sidering what  are  the  general  features  which,  in  an 
age  of  revolutions,  may  be  expected  to  distinguish 
a Royalist  or  Conservative  from  a Liberal  or  Radical 
poet  or  imaginative  writer.  We  are  not  speaking  of 
political  poetry,  of  Tyrtaeus  or  Korner,  of  Corn-Law 
Rhymes,  or  sonnets  on  the  Vaudois  or  on  Zaragoza; 
these  are  rather  oratory  than  poetry.  We  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  Radical  poet  as  the  scourge  of 
the  oppressor,  or  with  the  Tory  one  as  the  denouncer 
of  infidelity  or  jacobinism.  They  are  not  poets  by 
virtue  of  what  is  negative  or  combative  in  their  feel- 
ings, but  by  what  is  positive  and  sympathizing.  The 
pervading  spirit,  then,  of  the  one,  will  be  love  of 
the  Past ; of  the  other,  faith  in  the  Future.  The 
partialities  of  the  one  will  be  towards  things  estab- 
lished, settled,  regulated  ; of  the  other,  towards  human 
free-will,  cramped  and  fettered  in  all  directions,  both 
for  good  and  ill,  by  those  establishments  and  regula- 
tions. Both,  being  poets,  will  have  a heroic  sympathy 
with  heroism  ; but  the  one  will  respond  most  readily 
to  the  heroism  of  endurance  and  self-control,  the 
other  to  that  of  action  and  struggle.  Of  the  virtues 
and  beauties  of  our  common  humanity,  the  one  will 
view  with  most  affection  those  which  have  their  natural 
growth  under  the  shelter  of  fixed  habits  and  firmly 
settled  opinions  : local  and  family  attachments,  tran- 
quil tastes  and  pleasures,  those  gentle  and  placid  feel- 
ings towards  man  and  nature,  ever  most  easy  to  those 
upon  whom  is  not  imposed  the  burthen  of  being  their 
own  protectors  and  their  own  guides.  Greater  rever- 
ence, deeper  humility,  the  virtues  of  abnegation  and 
forbearance  carried  to  a higher  degree,  will  distinguish 
his  favourite  personages : while,  as  subjection  to  a 
common  faith  and  law  brings  the  most  diverse  charac- 
ters to  the  same  standard,  and  tends  more  or  less  to 
efface  their  differences,  a certain  monotony  of  goodness 
will  be  apparent,  and  a degree  of  distaste  for  prononce 


ALFEED  DE  VIGNY 


239 


characters,  as  being  nearly  allied  to  ill- regulated  ones. 
The  sympathies  of  the  Eadical  or  Movement  poet  will 
take  the  opposite  direction.  Active  qualities  are  what 
he  will  demand,  rather  than  passive ; those  which  fit 
persons  for  making  changes  in  the  circumstances  which 
surround  them,  rather  than  for  accommodating  them- 
selves to  those  circumstances.  Sensible  he  must  of 
course  be  of  the  necessity  of  restraints,  but  since  he  is 
dissatisfied  with  those  which  exist,  his  dislike  of  estab- 
lished opinions  and  institutions  turns  naturally  into 
sympathy  with  all  things,  not  in  themselves  bad,  which 
those  opinions  and  institutions  restrain,  that  is,  with 
all  natural  human  feelings.  Free  and  vigorous  develop- 
ments of  human  nature,  even  when  he  cannot  refuse 
them  his  disapprobation,  will  command  his  sympathy  : 
a more  marked  individuality  will  usually  be  conspicu- 
ous in  his  creations  ; his  heroic  characters  will  be  all 
armed  for  conflict,  full  of  energy  and  strong  self-will, 
of  grand  conceptions  and  brilliant  virtues,  but,  in 
habits  of  virtue,  often  below  those  of  the  Conservative 
school : there  will  not  be  so  broad  and  black  a line 
between  his  good  and  bad  personages : his  characters 
of  principle  will  be  more  tolerant  of  his  characters 
of  mere  passion.  Among  human  affections,  the  Con- 
servative poet  will  give  the  preference  to  those  which 
can  be  invested  with  the  character  of  duties ; to  those 
of  which  the  objects  are  as  it  were  marked  out  by  the 
arrangements  either  of  nature  or  of  society,  we  our- 
selves exercising  no  choice  : as  the  parental — the  filial 
— the  conjugal  after  the  irrevocable  union,  or  a solemn 
betrothment  equivalent  to  it,  and  with  due  observance 
of  all  decencies,  both  real  and  conventional.  The 
other  will  delight  in  painting  the  affections  which 
choose  their  own  objects,  especially  the  most  powerful 
of  these,  passionate  love  ; and  of  that,  the  more  vehe- 
ment oftener  than  the  more  graceful  aspects  ; will 
select  by  preference  its  subtlest  workings,  and  its  most 
unusual  and  unconventional  forms;  will  show  it  at 
war  with  the  forms  and  customs  of  society,  nay  even 
with  its  laws  and  its  religion,  if  the  laws  and  tenets 


240 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


which  regulate  that  branch  of  human  relations  are 
among  those  which  have  begun  to  be  murmured 
against.  By  the  Conservative,  feelings  and  states  o? 
mind  which  he  disapproves  will  be  indicated  rather 
than  painted ; to  lay  open  the  morbid  anatomy  of 
human  nature  will  appear  to  him  contrary  to  good 
taste  always,  and  often  to  morality : and  inasmuch 
as  feelings  intense  enough  to  threaten  established 
decorums  with  any  danger  of  violation  will  most 
frequently  have  the  character  of  morbidness  in  his 
eyes,  the  representation  of  passion  in  the  colours  of 
reality  will  commonly  be  left  to  the  Movement  poet. 
To  him,  whatever  exists  will  appear,  from  that  alone, 
fit  to  be  represented  : to  probe  the  wounds  of  society 
and  humanity  is  part  of  his  business,  and  he  will 
neither  shrink  from  exhibiting  what  is  in  nature, 
because  it  is  morally  culpable,  nor  because  it  is  physi- 
cally revolting.  Even  in  their  representations  of  inani- 
mate nature  there  will  be  a difference.  The  pictures 
most  grateful  and  most  familiar  to  the  one  will  be 
those  of  a universe  at  peace  within  itself — of  stability 
and  duration — of  irresistible  power  serenely  at  rest,  or 
moving  in  fulfilment  of  the  established  arrangements 
of  the  universe  : whatever  suggests  unity  of  design, 
and  the  harmonious  co-operation  of  all  the  forces  of 
nature  towards  ends  intended  by  a Being  in  whom 
there  is  no  variableness  nor  shadow  of  change.  In  the 
creations  of  the  other,  nature  will  oftener  appear  in  the 
relations  which  it  bears  to  the  individual,  rather  than 
to  the  scheme  of  the  universe ; there  will  be  a larger 
place  assigned  to  those  of  its  aspects  which  reflect  back 
the  troubles  of  an  unquiet  soul,  the  impulses  of  a 
passionate,  or  the  enjoyments  of  a voluptuous  one ; 
and  on  the  whole,  here  too  the  Movement  poet  will 
extend  so  much  more  widely  the  bounds  of  the  per- 
mitted, that  his  sources  both  of  effect  and  of  permanent 
interest  will  have  a far  larger  range  ; and  he  will 
generally  be  more  admired  than  the  other,  by  all  those 
by  whom  he  is  not  actually  condemned. 

There  is  room  in  the  world  for  poets  of  both  these 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


241 


kinds  ; and  the  greatest  will  always  partake  of  the 
nature  of  both.  A comprehensive  and  catholic  mind 
and  heart  will  doubtless  feel  and  exhibit  all  these 
different  sympathies,  each  in  its  due  proportion  and 
degree ; but  what  that  due  proportion  may  happen  to 
be,  is  part  of  the  larger  question  which  every  one  has 
to  ask  of  himself  at  such  periods,  viz.,  whether  it  were 
for  the  good  of  humanity  at  the  particular  era,  that 
Conservative  or  Radical  feeling  should  most  pre- 
dominate ? For  there  is  a perpetual  antagonism  between 
these  two  ; and  until  human  affairs  are  much  better 
ordered  than  they  are  likely  to  be  for  some  time  to 
come,  each  will  require  to  be,  in  a greater  or  less  degree, 
tempered  by  the  other  : nor  until  the  ordinances  of 
law  and  of  opinion  are  so  framed  as  to  give  full  scope 
to  all  individuality  not  positively  noxious,  and  to 
restrain  all  that  is  noxious,  will  the  two  classes  of 
sympathies  ever  be  entirely  reconciled. 

Suppose,  now,  a poet  of  conservative  sympathies, 
surprised  by  the  shock  of  a revolution,  which  sweeps 
away  the  surviving  symbols  of  what  was  great  in  the 
Past,  and  decides  irrevocably  the  triumph  of  new 
things  over  the  old:  what  will  be  the  influence  of 
this  event  on  his  imagination  and  feelings?  To  us 
it  seems  that  they  will  become  both  sadder  and  wiser. 
He  will  lose  that  blind  faith  in  the  Past,  which 
previously  might  have  tempted  him  to  fight  for  it 
with  a mistaken  ardour,  against  what  is  generous  and 
worthy  in  the  new  doctrines.  The  fall  of  the  objects 
of  his  reverence,  will  naturally,  if  he  has  any  discern- 
ment, open  his  mind  to  the  perception  of  that  in 
them  whereby  they  deserved  to  fall.  But  while  he 
is  thus  disenchanted  of  the  old  things,  he  will  not 
have  acquired  that  faith  in  the  new,  which  animated 
the  Radical  poet.  Having  it  not  before,  there  is 
nothing  in  the  triumph  of  those  new  things  which 
can  inspire  him  with  it  : institutions  and  creeds  fall 
by  their  own  badness,  not  by  the  goodness  of  that 
which  strikes  the  actual  blow.  The  destiny  of  man- 
kind, therefore,  will  naturally  appear  to  him  in  rather 

16 


242 


ALFKED  DE  VIGNY 


sombre  colours  ; gloomy  he  may  not  be,  but  he  will  j 
everywhere  tend  to  the  elegiac,  to  the  contemplative 
and  melancholy  rather  than  to  the  epic  and  active  ; his 
song  will  be  a subdued  and  plaintive  symphony,  more 
or  less  melodious  according  to  the  measure  of  his 
genius,  on  the  old  theme  of  blasted  hopes  and  defeated 
aspirations.  Yet  there  will  now  be  nothing  partial  or 
one-sided  in  his  sympathies : no  sense  of  a conflict  to 
be  maintained,  of  a position  to  be  defended  against 
assailants,  will  warp  the  impartiality  of  his  pity — will 
make  him  feel  that  there  are  wrongs  and  sufferings 
which  must  be  dissembled,  inconsistencies  which  must 
be  patched  up,  vanities  which  he  must  attempt  to  con- , 
sider  serious,  false  pretences  which  he  must  try  to 
mistake  for  truths,  lest  he  should  be  too  little  satisfied 
with  his  own  cause  to  do  his  duty  as  a combatant  for 
it : he  will  no  longer  feel  obliged  to  treat  all  that  part , 
of*  human  nature  which  rebelled  against  the  old  ideas, 
as  if  it  were  accursed— all  those  human  joys  and  suffer- 1 
in^s,  hopes  and  fears,  which  were  the  strength  of  the* 
new  doctrines,  and  which  the  old  ones  did  not  take 
sufficient  account  of,  as  if  they  were  unworthy  of  his 
sympathy.  His  heart  will  open  itself  freely  and  largely 
to  the  love  of  all  that  is  loveable,  to  pity  of  all  that  is 
pitiable:  every  cry  of  suffering  humanity  will  strike  a 
responsive  chord  in  his  breast ; whoever  carries  nobly 
his  own  share  of  the  general  burthen  of  human  life,  or{ 
generously  helps  to  lighten  that  of  others,  is  sure  of; 
his  homage  ; while  he  has  a deep  fraternal  charity  for. 
the  erring  and  disappointed — for  those  who  have  | 
aspired  and  fallen— who  have  fallen  because  they* 
have  aspired,  because  they  too  have  felt  those  infinite; 
longings  for  something  greater  than  merely  to  live  and 
die,  which  he  as  a poet  has  felt— which,  as  a poet,  he 
cannot  but  have  been  conscious  that  he  would  have 
purchased  the  realization  of  by  an  even  greater  measure 
of  error  and  suffering — and  which,  as  a poet  dis- 
enchanted, he  knows  too  well  the  pain  of  renouncing, 
hot  to  feel  a deep  indulgence  for  those  who  are  victims 
of  their  inability  to  make  the  sacrifice. 

In  this  ideal  portraiture  may  be  seen  the  genuine 


ALFRED  DE  VIGN1 


248 


lineaments  of  Alfred  de  Vigny.  The  same  features 
may,  indeed,  be  traced  more  or  less,  in  the  greater 
part  of  the  Royalist  literature  of  young  France  ; even 
in  Balzac  all  these  characteristics  are  distinctly  visible, 
blended  of  course  with  his  individual  peculiarities,  and 
modified  by  them.  But  M.  de  Vigny  is  a more  perfect 
type,  because  he,  more  entirely  than  most  others,  writes 
from  his  real  feelings,  and  not  from  mere  play  of  fancy. 
Many  a writer  in  France,  of  no  creed  at  all,  and  who 
therefore  gives  himself  all  the  latitude  of  a Movement 
poet,  is  a Royalist  with  his  imagination  merely,  for  the 
sake  of  the  picturesque  effect  of  donjons  and  cloisters, 
crusaders  and  troubadours.  And  in  retaliation  many  a 
Liberal  or  Republican  critic  will  stand  up  stiffly  for  the 
old  school  in  literature,  for  the  grand  siecle,  because, 
like  him,  it  takes  its  models  from  Greece  or  Rome ; 
and  will  keep  no  terms  with  the  innovators  who  find 
anything  grand  and  poetical  in  the  middle  ages,  or  who 
fancy  that  barons  or  priests  may  look  well  in  rhyme. 
But  this  is  accident ; an  exception  to  the  ordinary  rela- 
tion between  political  opinions  and  poetic  tendencies. 
A Radical  who  finds  his  political  beau  ideal  still  farther 
back  in  the  Past  than  the  Royalist  finds  his,  is  not  the 
type  of  a Radical  poet ; he  will  more  resemble  the 
Conservative  poet  of  ages  back  : less  of;  the  Movement 
spirit  may  be  found  in  him,  than  in  many  a nominal 
Royalist  whose  Royalist  convictions  have  no  very  deep 
root.  But  when  we  would  see  the  true  character  of  a 
Royalist  poet,  we  must  seek  for  it  in  one  like  M.  de 
Vigny,  a conservative  in  feeling,  and  not  in  mere  fancy, 
and  a man  (if  we  may  judge  from  his  writings)  of  rare 
simplicity  of  heart,  and  freedom  from  egotism  and  self- 
display. The  most  complete  exemplification  of  the 
feelings  and  views  of  things  which  we  have  described 
as  naturally  belonging  to  the  Royalist  poet  of  young 
France,  will  be  found  in  his  productions,  subsequent  to 
the  Revolution  of  1880.  But  we  must  first  see  him  as 
he  was  before  1880,  and  in  writings  in  which  the  quali- 
ties we  have  enumerated  had  as  yet  manifested  them- 
selves only  in  a small  degree. 


16—2 


244 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


Count  Alfred  de  Vigny  was  bom  on  the  27th  of 
March,  1799,  at  Loches  in  Touraine,  that  province 
which  has  given  birth  to  so  many  of  the  literary 
celebrities  of  France.  His  father  was  an  old  cavalry 
officer  of  ancient  lineage,  who  had  served  in  the  Seven 
Years’  War,  and  whose  stories  of  his  illustrious  friends 
Chevert  and  d’Assas,  and  of  the  great  Frederic  (who 
was  not  a little  indebted  even  for  his  victories  to  the 
prestige  he  exercised  over  the  enthusiastic  imaginations 
of  the  French  officers  who  fought  against  him),  were 
the  earliest  nourishment  of  the  son’s  childish  aspira- 
tions. In  the  latter  years  of  Napoleon  our  author  was 
a youth  at  college  ; and  he  has  described,  in  the  first 
chapter  of  his  Souvenirs  de  Servitude  Militaire , the 
restless  and  roving  spirit,  the  ardour  for  military  glory 
and  military  adventure,  the  contempt  of  all  pursuits 
and  wishes  not  terminating  in  a Marshal’s  baton,  which 
were  the  epidemic  diseases  of  every  French  school- 
boy during  those  years  when  “the  beat  of  drum,”  to 
use  his  own  expression,  “ drowned  the  voice  of  the 
teacher,”  and  of  which  M.  de  Vigny  confesses,  in  all 
humility,  that  the  traces  in  himself  are  not  entirely 
effaced.  On  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  he  entered,  at 
sixteen,  into  the  royal  guard,  accompanied  the  Bour- 
bons to  Ghent  during  the  Hundred  Days,  and  remained 
in  the  army  up  to  1828.  Fourteen  years  a soldier 
without  seeing  any  service  (for  he  was  not  even  in  the 
brief  Spanish  campaign) — the  alternation  of  routine 
duties  and  enforced  idleness,  the  ennui  of  an  active 
profession  without  one  opportunity  for  action  except  in 
obscure  and  painful  civil  broils,  would  have  driven  many 
to  find  relief  in  dissipation ; M.  de  Vigny  found  it  in 
contemplation  and  solitary  thought.  “ Those  years  of 
my  life,”  he  says,  “ would  have  been  wasted,  if  I had 
not  employed  them  in  attentive  and  persevering 
observation,  storing  up  the  results  for  future  years. 
I owe  to  my  military  life  views  of  human  nature 
which  could  never  have  reached  me  but  under  a 
soldier’s  uniform.  There  are  scenes  which  one  can 
only  arrive  at  through  disgusts,  which,  to  one  not 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


245 


forced  to  endure  them,  would  be  unendurable.  . 
Overcome  by  an  ennui  which  I had  little  expected  in 
that  life  so  ardently  desired,  it  became  a necessity  for 
me  to  rescue  at  least  my  nights  from  the  empty  and 
tiresome  bustle  of  a soldier’s  days.  In  those  nights  I 
enlarged  in  silence  what  knowledge  I had  received 
from  our  tumultuous  public  studies ; and  thence  the 
origin  of  my  writings.” 

M.  de  Vigny’s  first  publications  were  poems,  of  which 
we  shall  say  a few  words  presently,  and  which,  what- 
ever be  the  opinion  formed  of  their  absolute  merit,  are 
considered  by  a sober  and  impartial  critic,  M.  Sainte- 
Beuve,  as  of  a more  completely  original  character  than 
those  of  either  Lamartine  or  Victor  Hugo.  It  is, 
therefore,  only  in  the  common  course  of  things,  that 
they  were  at  the  time  but  moderately  successful.  The 
first  of  his  works  which  attained  popularity  was  Cinq- 
Mars , or  a Conspiracy  under  Louis  XIII.,  an  his- 
torical romance  of  the  school  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  then 
at  the  height  of  his  popularity  in  France,  and  who  was 
breathing  the  breath  of  life  into  the  historical  literature 
of  France,  and,  through  France,  of  all  Europe. 

M.  de  Vigny  has  chosen  his  scene  at  that  passage  of 
French  history,  which  completed  the  transformation 
of  the  feudal  monarchy  of  the  middle  ages  into  the 
despotic  and  courtly  monarchy  of  Louis  XIV.  The 
iron  hand  of  Richelieu,  reigning  in  the  name  of  a master 
who  both  feared  and  hated  him,  but  whom  habit  and 
conscious  incapacity  rendered  his  slave,  had  broken 
the  remaining  strength  of  those  great  lords,  once 
powerful  enough  to  cope  single-handed  with  their 
sovereign,  and  several  of  whom,  by  confederating, 
could,  to  a very  late  period,  dictate  for  themselves 
terms  of  capitulation.  The  crafty  and  cruel  policy  of 
the  minister  had  mowed  down  all  of  those  who,  by 
position  and  personal  qualities,  stood  pre-eminent  above 
the  rest.  As  for  those  whom,  because  they  could  not 
be  dangerous  to  him,  he  spared,  their  restlessness  and 
turbulence,  surviving  their  power,  might,  during  a royal 
minority,  break  out  once  more  into  impotent  and 


246 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


passing  tumults,  but  the  next  generation  of  them  were 
and  could  be  nothing  but  courtiers  : an  aristocracy  still 
for  purposes  of  rapine  and  oppression,  for  resistance  to 
the  despotism  of  the  monarch  they  were  as  the  feeblest 
of  the  multitude.  A most  necessary  and  salutary 
transformation  in  European  society,  and  which, 
whether  completed  by  the  hands  of  a Richelieu  or  a 
Henry  the  Seventh,  was,  as  M.  de  Vigny  clearly  sees 
(and  perhaps  no  longer  laments),  the  destined  and  in- 
evitable preparation  for  the  era  of  modern  liberty  and 
democracy.  But  the  age  was  one  of  those  (there  are 
several  of  them  in  history)  in  which  the  greatest  and 
most  beneficial  ends  were  accomplished  by  the  basest 
means.  It  was  the  age  of  struggle  between  unscrupu- 
lous intellect  and  brute  force  ; intellect  not  yet  in  a 
condition  to  assert  its  inherent  right  of  supremacy  by 
pure  means,  and  no  longer  wielding,  as  in  the  great 
era  of  the  Reformation,  the  noble  weapon  of  an  honest 
popular  enthusiasm.  Iago  prime  minister,  is  the  type 
of  the  men  who  crumbled  into  dust  the  feudal  aris- 
tocracies of  Europe.  In  no  period  were  the  unseen 
springs  both  of  the  good  and  the  evil  that  was  done,  so 
exclusively  the  viler  passions  of  humanity  : what  little 
of  honourable  or  virtuous  feeling  might  exist  in  high 
places  during  that  era,  was  probably  oftenest  found  in 
the  aristocratic  faction  so  justly  and  beneficially  extir- 
pated ; for  in  the  rule  of  lawless  force,  some  noble  im- 
pulses are  possible  in  the  rulers  at  least — in  that  of 
cunning  and  fraud,  none. 

Towards  the  close  of  Richelieu’s  career,  when  the 
most  difficult  part  of  his  task  was  done,  but  his  sinking 
health,  and  the  growing  jealousy  and  fear  of  that 
master,  one  word  of  whom  would  even  then  have  dis- 
missed him  into  private  life,  made  the  cares  of  his 
station  press  heavier  on  him,  and  required  a more 
constant  and  anxious  watchfulness  than  ever  ; it  was 
his  practice  to  amuse  the  frivolous  monarch  with  a 
perpetual  succession  of  new  favourites,  who  served  his 
purpose  till  Louis  was  tired  of  them,  or  whom,  if  any 
of  them  proved  capable  of  acquiring  a permanent 
tenure  of  the  royal  favour,  and  of  promoting  other 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


247 


designs  than  his  own,  he  well  knew  how  to  remove. 
The  last,  the  most  accomplished,  and  the  most  unfortu- 
nate of  these  was  Henri  d’Effiat,  Marquis  de  Cinq-Mars, 
and  of  him  our  author  has  made  the  hero  of  his  tale.* 

3{C  5jC  * 

Such  is  Cinq-Mars , or  a Conspiracy  under  Louis 
XIII. — a work  not  free  from  the  fault,  so  far  as  it  is  a 
fault,  most  common  in  the  romantic  literature  of  young 
France  ; it  partakes  somewhat  of  the  Literature  of 
Despair ; it  too  much  resembles  M.  Eugene  Sue’s  early 
novels,  in  which  every  villain  dies  honoured  and  pros- 
perous at  a good  old  age,  after  every  innocent  person  in 
the  tale  has  been  crushed  and  exterminated  by  him 
without  pity  or  remorse — through  which  the  mocking 
laugh  of  a chorus  of  demons  seems  to  ring  in  our  ears 
that  the  world  is  delivered  over  to  an  evil  spirit,  and 
that  man  is  his  creature  and  his  prey.  But  such  is  not 
the  character  of  M.  de  Vigny’s  writings,  and  the  re- 
semblance in  this  single  instance  is  only  casual.  Still, 
as  a mere  work  of  art,  if  the  end  of  art  be,  as  con- 
ceived by  the  ancients  and  by  the  great  German 
writers,  the  production  of  the  intrinsically  beautiful, 
Cinq- Mars  cannot  be  commended.  A story  in  which 
the  odious  and  the  contemptible  in  man  and  life  act  so 
predominant  a part,  which  excites  our  scorn  or  our 
hatred  so  much  more  than  our  pity — comes  within  a 
far  other  category  than  that  of  the  Beautiful,  and  can 
be  justified  on  no  canons  of  taste  of  which  that  is  the 
end.  But  it  is  not  possible  for  the  present  generation 
of  France  to  restrict  the  purposes  of  art  within  this 
limit.  They  are  too  much  in  earnest.  They  take  life 
too  much  au  serieux.  It  may  be  possible  (what  some 
of  his  more  enthusiastic  admirers  say  of  Goethe)  that 
a thoroughly  earnest  mind  may  struggle  upwards 
through  the  region  of  clouds  and  storms  to  an  un- 
troubled summit,  where  all  other  good  sympathies  and 
aspirations  confound  themselves  in  a serene  love  and 
culture  of  the  calmly  beautiful — looking  down  upon 
the  woes  and  struggles  of  perplexed  humanity  with  as 

* [Here  followed  originally  a sketch  of  the  plot  of  the 
romance,  now  omitted  as  unnecessary.] 


248 


ALFKED  DE  VIGNY 


calm  a gaze  (though  with  a more  helping  arm)  as  that 
of  him  who  is  most  placidly  indifferent  to  human  weal. 
But  however  this  maybe,  the  great  majority  of  persons 
in  earnest  will  remain  always  in  the  intermediate 
region  ; will  feel  themselves  more  or  less  militant  in 
this  world — having  something  to  pursue  in  it,  different 
from  the  Beautiful,  different  from  their  own  mental 
tranquillity  and  health,  and  which  they  will  pursue,  if 
they  have  the  gifts  of  an  artist,  by  all  the  resources  of 
art,  whatever  becomes  of  canons  of  criticism,  and  beauty 
in  the  abstract.  The  writers  and  readers  of  works  of 
imagination  in  France  have  the  desire  of  amusement 
as  much  as  English  readers,  the  sense  of  beauty 
generally  much  more  ; but  they  have  also,  very 
generally,  a thirst  for  something  which  shall  address 
itself  to  their  real  life-feelings,  and  not  to  those  of 
imagination  merely — which  shall  give  them  an  idea  or 
a sentiment  connected  with  the  actual  world.  And  if 
a story  or  a poem  is  possessed  by  an  Idea — if  it  power- 
fully exhibits  some  form  qf  real  life,  or  some  conception 
respecting  human  nature  or  society  which  may  tend  to 
consequences,  not  only  is  it  not  necessarily  expected  to 
represent  abstract  beauty,  but  it  is  pardoned  for  exhibiting 
even  hideousness.  These  considerations  should  enable 
us  to  understand  and  tolerate  such  works  as  Le  Pere 
Goriot , of  Balzac,  or  Leoni,  of  George  Sand,  and  to 
understand,  if  we  do  not  tolerate,  such  as  the  Antony 
or  Bichard  Darlington , of  Alexandre  Dumas. 

Now,  among  the  ideas  with  which  French  literature 
has  been  possessed  for  the  last  ten  years,  is  that  of 
realizing,  and  bringing  home  to  the  imagination,  the 
history  and  spirit  of  past  ages.  Sir  Walter  Scott  having 
no  object  but  to  please,  and  having  readers  who  only 
sought  to  be  pleased,  would  not  have  told  the  story  of 
Bichelieu  and  Cinq- Mars  without  greatly  softening  the 
colouring;  and  the  picture  would  have  been  more 
agreeable  than  M.  de  Vigny’s,  but  it  would  not  have 
been  so  true  to  the  age.  M.  de  Vigny  preferred  the 
truer  to  the  more  pleasing,  and  his  readers  have 
sanctioned  the  preference. 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


249* 


Even  according  to  this  view  of  its  object,  the  work 
has  obvious  defects.  The  characters  of  some  of  the 
subordinate  personages,  Friar  Joseph  for  instance,  are 
even  more  revolting  than  the  truth  of  history  requires. 
De  Thou,  the  pious  and  studious  man  of  retirement, 
cast  out  into  storms  for  which  he  was  never  meant — 
the  only  character  of  principle  in  the  tale,  yet  who 
sacrifices  principle  as  well  as  life  to  romantic  friend- 
ship— is  but  coldly  represented ; his  goodness  is  too 
simple,  his  attachment  too  instinctive,  too  dog-like, 
and  so  much  intensity  of  friendship  is  not  sufficiently 
accounted  for ; Balzac  would  have  managed  these 
things  better.  The  author  also  crowds  his  story  too 
much  with  characters ; he  cannot  bear  that  any  cele- 
brated personage  whom  the  age  affords  should  be 
passed  over,  and  consequently  introduces  many  who 
ought  not  to  have  been  drawn  at  all  unless  they  could 
be  drawn  truly,  and  on  whom  he  has  not  been  able 
to  employ  the  same  accurate  study  as  he  has  on  his 
principal  characters.  Richelieu  and  Louis  XIII.  are 
historical  figures  of  which  he  has  taken  the  trouble 
to  form  a well- digested  conception ; but  he  can  know 
nothing  of  Milton,  whom  he  introduces,  on  his  way 
from  Italy,  reading  his  Paradise  Lost , not  written  till 
twenty  years  after,  to  Corneille,  Descartes,  and  a crowd 
of  other  poets,  wits,  and  philosophers,  in  the  salon  of 
the  celebrated  courtezan,  Marion  Delorme.  But  these 
are  minor  blemishes.  As  a specimen  of  art  employed 
in  embodying  the  character  of  an  age,  the  merit  of 
Cinq-Mars  is  very  great.  The  spirit  of  the  age  pene- 
trates every  nook  and  corner  of  it ; the  same  atmo- 
sphere which  hangs  over  the  personages  of  the  story 
hangs  over  us ; we  feel  the  eye  of  the  omnipresent 
Richelieu  upon  us,  and  the  influences  of  France  in  its 
Catholic  and  aristocratic  days,  of  ardent,  pleasure- 
loving,  laughter-loving,  and  danger-loving  France,  all 
round  us.  To  this  merit  is  to  be  added,  that  the  repre- 
sentations of  feeling  are  always  simple  and  graceful ; the 
author  has  not,  like  so  many  inferior  writers,  supplied 
by  the  easy  resource  of  mere  exaggeration  of  colouring. 


250 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


the  incapacity  to  show  us  anything  subtle  or  profound, 
any  trait  we  knew  not  before,  in  the  workings  of  passion 
in  the  human  heart.  On  the  whole,  Cinq-Mars  is  ad- 
mirable as  a first  production  of  its  kind,  but  altogether 
of  an  inferior  order  to  its  successors,  the  Grandeur  et 
Servitude  Militaire , and  Stello ; to  which  we  proceed. 

Of  M.  de  Vigny’s  prose  works,  Cinq-Mars  alone  was 
written  previous  to  the  Revolution  of  1830 ; and  though 
the  royalist  tendency  of  the  author’s  political  opinions 
is  manifest  throughout — indeed  the  book  is  one  long 
protest  against  the  levelling  of  the  feudal  aristocracy 
— it  does  not,  nor  does  any  part  of  the  royalist  litera- 
ture of  the  last  twenty  years,  entirely  answer  to  our 
description  of  the  Conservative  school  of  poetry  and 
romance.  To  find  a real  Conservative  literature  in 
France  one  must  look  earlier  than  the  first  Revolution, 
as  to  study  the  final  transformation  of  that  literature, 
one  must  descend  below  the  last.  One  must  distinguish 
three  periods ; Conservatism  triumphant,  Conservatism 
militant,  Conservatism  vanquished.  The  first  is  re- 
presented by  Racine,  Fenelon,  and  Voltaire  in  his 
tragedies,  before  he  quitted  the  paths  of  his  pre- 
decessors. Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  is  the  father  and 
founder  of  the  Movement  literature  of  France,  and 
Madame  de  Stael  its  second  great  apostle : in  them 
first  the  revolt  of  the  modern  mind  against  the  social 
arrangements  and  doctrines  which  had  descended  from 
of  old,  spoke  with  the  inspired  voice  of  genius.  At  the 
head  of  the  literature  of  Conservatism  in  its  second  or 
militant  period,  stands  Chateaubriand : a man  whose 
name  marks  one  of  the  turning  points  in  the  literary 
history  of  his  country:  poetically  a Conservative  to 
the  inmost  core — rootedly  feudal  and  Catholic — whose 
genius  burst  into  life  during  the  tempest  of  a revolu- 
tion which  hurled  down  from  their  pedestals  all  his 
objects  of  reverence  ; which  saddened  his  imagination, 
modified  (without  impairing)  his  Conservatism  by  the 
addition  of  its  multiform  experiences,  and  made  the 
world  to  him  too  full  of  disorder  and  gloom,  too  much 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


251 


a world  without  harmony,  and  ill  at  ease,  to  allow  of 
his  exhibiting  the  pure  untroubled  spirit  of  Conser- 
vative poetry  as  exemplified  in  Southey,  or  still  more 
in  Wordsworth.  To  this  literature,  of  Conservatism 
discouraged  but  not  yet  disenchanted,  still  hopeful  and 
striving  to  set  up  again  its  old  idols,  Cinq-Mars  be- 
longs. From  the  final  and  hopeless  overthrow  of  the 
old  order  of  society  in  July,  1830,  begins  the  era  of 
Conservatism  disenchanted — Conservatism  which  is 
already  in  the  past  tense — which  for  practical  pur- 
poses is  abandoned,  and  only  contributes  its  share, 
as  all  past  associations  and  experiences  do,  towards 
shaping  and  colouring  the  individual’s  impressions  of 
the  present. 

This  is  the  character  which  pervades  the  two  prin- 
pal  of  M.  de  Vigny’s  more  recent  works,  the  Ser- 
vitude et  Grandeur  Militaire , and  Stello . He  has 
lost  his  faith  in  Royalism,  and  in  the  system  of  opinions 
connected  with  it.  His  eyes  are  opened  to  all  the 
iniquities  and  hypocrisies  of  the  state  of  society  which 
is  passing  away.  But  he  cannot  take  up  with  any 
of  the  systems  of  politics,  and  of  either  irreligious  or 
religious  philosophy,  which  profess  to  lay  open  the 
mystery  of  what  is  to  follow,  and  to  guarantee  that 
the  new  order  of  society  will  not  have  its  own  iniqui- 
ties and  hypocrisies  of  as  dark  a kind.  He  has  no 
faith  in  any  systems,  or  in  man’s  power  of  prophecy ; 
nor  is  he  sure  that  the  new  tendencies  of  society, 
take  them  for  all  in  all,  have  more  to  satisfy  the  wants 
of  a thoughtful  and  loving  spirit,  than  the  old  had ; 
at  all  events  not  so  much  more,  as  to  make  the  con- 
dition of  human  nature  a cheerful  subject  to  him. 
He  looks  upon  life,  and  sees  most  things  crooked,  and 
(saving  whatever  assurance  his  religious  impressions 
may  afford  to  him  that  in  some  unknown  way  all 
things  must  be  working  for  good)  sees  not  how  they 
shall  be  made  straight.  This  is  not  a happy  state  of 
mind,  but  it  is  not  an  unfavourable  one  to  poetry. 
If  the  worse  forms  of  it  produce  a Literature  of  De- 
spair, the  better  are  seen  in  a writer  like  M.  de 


252 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


Vigny — who  having  now  no  theories  of  his  own  or  of 
his  teachers  to  save  the  credit  of,  looks  life  steadily 
in  the  face — applies  himself  to  understanding  what- 
ever of  evil,  and  of  heroic  struggle  with  evil,  it  presents 
to  his  individual  experience — and  gives  forth  his  pic- 
tures of  both,  with  deep  feeling,  but  with  the  calmness 
of  one  who  has  no  point  to  carry,  no  quarrel  to  main- 
tain, over  and  above  the  “ general  one  of  every  son  of 
Adam  with  his  lot  here  below.” 

M.  de  Vigny  has  been  a soldier,  and  he  has  been, 
and  is,  a poet : the  situation  and  feelings  of  a soldier 
(especially  a soldier  not  in  active  service),  and,  so  far 
as  the  measure  of  his  genius  admits,  those  of  a poet, 
are  what  he  is  best  acquainted  with,  and  what,  there- 
fore, as  a man  of  earnest  mind,  not  now  taking 
anything  on  trust,  it  was  most  natural  he  should 
attempt  to  delineate.  The  Souvenirs  Militaires  are 
the  embodiment  of  the  author’s  experiences  in  the  one 
capacity,  Stello , in  the  other.  Each  consists  of  three 
touching  and  beautifully- told  stories,  founded  on  fact, 
in  which  the  life  and  position  of  a soldier  in  modern 
times,  and  of  a poet  at  all  times,  in  their  relation  to 
society,  are  shadowed  out.  In  relation  to  society 
chiefly ; for  that  is  the  prominent  feature  in  all  the 
speculations  of  the  French  mind ; and  thence  it  is 
that  their  poetry  is  so  much  shallower  than  ours,  and 
their  works  of  fiction  so  much  deeper  ; that,  of  the 
metaphysics  of  every  mode  of  feeling  and  thinking,  so 
little  is  to  be  learnt  from  them,  and  of  its  social  in- 
fluences so  much. 

The  soldier,  and  the  poet,  appear  to  M.  de  Vigny 
alike  misplaced,  alike  ill  at  ease,  in  the  present  con- 
dition of  human  life.  In  the  soldier  he  sees  a human 
being  set  apart  for  a profession  doomed  to  extinction, 
and  doomed  consequently,  in  the  interval,  to  a con- 
tinual decrease  of  dignity  and  of  the  sympathies  of 
mankind.  War  he  sees  drawing  to  a close  ; com- 
promises and  diplomatic  arrangements  now  terminate 
the  differences  among  civilized  nations  ; the  army  is 
reduced  more  and  more  to  mere  parade,  or  the  functions 


ALFKED  DE  VIGNY 


253 


of  a police ; called  out  from  time  to  time,  to  shed  its 
own  blood  and  that  of  malcontent  fellow- citizens  in 
tumults  where  much  popular  hatred  is  to  be  earned, 
but  no  glory  ; disliked  by  taxpayers  for  its  burthen- 
someness  ; looked  down  upon  by  the  industrious  for 
its  enforced  idleness : its  employers  themselves  always 
in  dread  of  its  numbers,  and  jealous  of  its  restlessness, 
which,  in  a soldier,  is  but  the  impatience  of  a man 
who  is  useless  and  nobody,  for  a chance  of  being  useful 
and  of  being  something.  The  soldier  thus  remains 
with  all  the  burthens,  all  the  irksome  restraints  of  his 
condition,  aggravated,  but  without  the  hopes  which 
lighted  it  up,  the  excitements  which  gave  it  zest. 
Those  alone,  says  M.  de  Vigny,  who  have  been 
soldiers,  know  what  servitude  is.  To  the  soldier 
alone  is  obedience,  passive  and  active,  the  law  of  his 
life,  the  law  of  every  day  and  of  every  moment ; 
obedience,  not  stopping  at  sacrifice,  nor  even  at  crime. 
In  him  alone  is  the  abnegation  of  his  self-will,  of  his 
liberty  of  independent  action,  absolute  and  unre- 
served ; the  grand  distinction  of  humanity,  the 
responsibility  of  the  individual  as  a moral  agent, 
being  made  over,  once  for  all,  to  superior  authority. 
The  type  of  human  nature  which  these  circumstances 
create,  well  deserves  the  study  of  the  artist  and  the 
philosopher.  M.  de  Vigny  has  deeply  meditated  on  it. 
He  has  drawn  with  delicacy  and  profundity  that 
mixture  of  Spartan  and  stoical  impassibility  with 
ehild-like  insouciance  and  bonhomie , which  is  the  re- 
sult, on  the  one  hand,  of  a life  of  painful  and  difficult 
obedience  to  discipline — on  the  other,  of  a conscience 
freed  from  concern  or  accountability  for  the  quality  of 
the  actions  of  which  that  life  is  made  up.  On  the 
means  by  which  the  moral  position  of  the  soldier 
might  be  raised,  and  his  hardships  alleviated,  M.  de 
Vigny  has  ideas  worthy  of  the  consideration  of  him 
who  is  yet  to  come — the  statesman  who  has  care  and 
leisure  for  plans  of  social  amelioration  unconnected 
with  party  contests  and  the  cry  of  the  hour.  His 
stories,  full  of  melancholy  beauty,  will  carry  into 


254 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


thousands  of  minds  and  hearts  which  would  otherwise 
have  been  unvisited  by  it,  a conception  of  a soldier’s 
trials  and  a soldier’s  virtues  in  times  which,  like  ours, 
are  not  those  of  martial  glory. 

The  first  of  these  tales  at  least,  if  not  all  the  three, 
if  the  author’s  words  are  to  be  taken  literally,  is  un- 
varnished fact.  But  familiar  as  the  modern  French 
romance-writers  have  made  us  with  the  artifice  of 
assimilating  their  fictions,  for  the  sake  of  artistic 
reality,  to  actual  recollections,  we  dare  not  trust  these 
appearances  ; and  we  must  needs  suppose  that,  though 
suggested  by  facts,  the  stories  are  indebted  to  M.  de 
Vigny’s  invention  not  only  for  their  details,  but  for 
some  of  their  main  circumstances.  If  he  had  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  meet  with  facts  which,  related  as  they 
actually  occurred,  served  so  perfectly  as  these  do  his 
purposes  of  illustration,  he  would  hardly  have  left  any 
possibility  of  doubt  as  to  their  authenticity.  He  must 
know  the  infinite  distance,  as  to  power  of  influencing 
the  mind,  between  the  best  contrived  and  most 
probable  fiction,  and  the  smallest  fact. 

The  first  tale,  “ Laurette,  ou  Le  Cachet  Rouge,”  is  the 
story  of  an  old  chef  de  bataillon  (an  intermediate  grade 
between  captain  and  major),  whom  the  author,  when 
following  Louis  XVIII.  in  the  retreat  to  Ghent,  over- 
took on  his  march.  This  old  man  was  leading  along 
the  miry  road,  on  a day  of  pelting  rain,  a shabby  mule 
drawing  “ a little  wooden  cart  covered  over  with  three 
hoops  and  a piece  of  black  oilcloth,  and  resembling  a 
cradle  on  a pair  of  wheels.”  On  duty  he  was  escorting 
the  King  as  far  as  the  frontier,  and  on  duty  he  was  about 
to  return  from  thence  to  his  regiment,  to  fight  against 
the  King  at  Waterloo.  He  had  begun  life  at  sea,  and 
had  been  taken  from  the  merchant  service  to  command 
a brig  of  war,  when  the  navy,  like  the  army,  was  left 
without  officers  by  the  emigration.  In  1797,  under  the 
government  of  the  Directory,  he  weighed  anchor  for 
Cayenne,  with  sixty  soldiers  and  a prisoner,  one  of 
those  whom  the  coup  d'etat  of  the  18th  of  Fructidor 
had  consigned  to  deportation.  Along  with  this  prisoner, 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


255 


whom  he  was  ordered  to  treat  with  respect,  he  received 
a packet  “ with  three  red  seals,  the  middle  one  of 
enormous  size,”  not  to  be  opened  till  the  vessel  reached 
one  degree  north  of  the  Line.  As  he  was  nailing *up 
this  packet,  the  possession  of  which  made  him  feel 
uncomfortable,  in  a nook  of  his  cabin,  safe  and  in  sight, 
his  prisoner,  a mere  youth,  entered,  holding  by  the 
hand  a beautiful  girl  of  seventeen.  His  offence,  it 
appeared,  was  a newspaper  article  : he  had  ‘‘trusted  in 
their  liberty  of  the  press,”  had  stung  the  Directory, 
and,  only  four  days  after  his  marriage,  he  was  seized, 
tried,  and  received  sentence  of  death,  commuted  for 
deportation  to  Cayenne,  whither  his  young  wife  deter- 
mined on  accompanying  him.  We  will  not  trust  our- 
selves to  translate  any  of  the  scenes  which  exhibit 
these  two : a Marryat  would  be  required  to  find  a style 
for  rendering  the  sailor-like  naivete  of  the  honest 
officer’s  recital.  A more  exquisite  picture  we  have 
never  seen  of  innocence  and  ingenuousness,  true  warm- 
hearted affection,  and  youthful  buoyancy  of  spirits 
breaking  out  from  under  the  load  of  care  and  sorrow 
which  had  been  laid  so  early  and  so  suddenly  on  their 
young  heads.  They  won  the  good-natured  captain’s 
heart : he  had  no  family  and  no  ties ; he  offered,  on 
arriving  at  Cayenne,  to  settle  there  with  his  little 
savings,  and  adopt  them  as  his  children.  On  reaching 
the  prescribed  latitude  he  broke  the  fatal  seal;  and 
shuddered  at  beholding  the  sentence  of  death,  and  an 
order  for  immediate  execution.  After  a terrible  internal 
struggle,  military  discipline  prevailed : he  did  as  was 
commanded  him,  and  “ that  moment,”  says  he,  “has 
lasted  for  me  to  the  present  time  ; as  long  as  I live  I 
shall  drag  it  after  me  as  a galley-slave  drags  his  chain.”' 
Laurette  became  an  incurable  idiot.  ‘‘I  felt  some- 
thing in  me  which  said — remain  with  her  to  the  end  of 
thy  days  and  protect  her.”  Her  mother  was  dead# 
her  relations  wished  to  put  her  into  a madhouse  ; “ I 
turned  my  back  upon  them,  and  kept  her  with  me.” 
Taking  a disgust  to  the  sea,  he  exchanged  into  the 
army  ; the  unhappy  girl  was  with  him  in  all  Napoleon’s. 


256 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


’Campaigns,  even  in  the  retreat  from  Russia,  tended  by 
Mm  like  a daughter,  and  when  the  author  overtook 
him  he  was  conducting  her  in  the  cart  with  its  three 
hoops  and  its  canvas  cover.  The  author  shows  her  to 
us — a picture  not  inferior  to  Sterne’s  Maria,  and 
which  deserves  to  live  as  long : to  detach  it  from  the 
rest  of  the  story  would  be  unjust  to  the  author. 

M.  de  Vigny  parted  from  the  old  officer  at  the  frontier, 
and  learnt,  long  after,  that  he  perished  at  Waterloo  ; 
she,  left  alone,  and  consigned  to  a madhouse,  died  in 
three  days. 

“La  Veillee  de  Vincennes  ” is  a less  tragical  story:  the 
life  and  destiny  of  an  old  adjutant  of  artillery,  with 
whom  the  author,  an  officer  in  the  guards,  then  in 
garrison  at  Vincennes,  made  acquaintance  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  fortress,  the  evening  previous  to  a general 
review  and  inspection.  The  old  adjutant,  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  powder,  was  anxiously  casting  up  long 
columns  of  figures,  feeling  himself  eternally  disgraced 
if  there  should  be  found  on  the  morrow  the  most 
trifling  inaccuracy  in  his  books  ; and  regretting  the 
impossibility,  from  the  late  hour,  of  giving  another 
glance  that  night  at  the  contents  of  the  powder 
magazine.  The  soldiers  of  the  guard,  who  were  not 
merely  the  elite  of  the  army,  but  the  elite  of  the  elite , 

44  thought  themselves,”  says  our  author,  44  dishonoured 
by  the  most  insignificant  fault.”  4 4 Go,  you  are 
puritans  of  honour,  all  of  you,”  said  I,  tapping  him  on 
the  shoulder.  He  bowed,  and  withdrew  towards  the 
barrack  where  he  was  quartered  ; then,  with  an  inno- 
cence of  manners  peculiar  to  the  honest  race  of 
soldiers,  he  returned  with  a handful  of  hempseed  for 
a hen  who  was  bringing  up  her  twelve  chickens  under 
the  old  bronze  cannon  on  which  we  were  seated.” 
This  hen,  the  delight  of  her  master  and  the  pet  of  the  f 
soldiers,  could  not  endure  any  person  not  in  uniform. 

At  a late  hour  that  night  the  author  caught  the  sound 
of  music  from  an  open  window  : he  approached ; the 
voices  were  those  of  the  old  adjutant,  his  daughter,  and 
a young  non-commissioned  officer  of  artillery,  her 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


257 


intended  husband ; they  saw  him,  invited  him  in,  and 
we  owe  to  this  evening  a charming  description  of  the 
simple,  innocent  interior  of  this  little  family  and  their 
simple  history.  The  old  soldier  was  the  orphan  child 
of  a villager  of  Montreuil,  near  Versailles  ; brought  up, 
and  taught  music  and  gardening,  by  the  cure  of  his 
village.  At  sixteen,  a word  sportively  dropped  by 
Marie  Antoinette  when,  alone  with  the  Princess  de 
Lamballe,  she  met  him  and  his  pretty  playmate 
Pierrette  in  the  park  of  Montreuil,  made  him  enlist 
as  a soldier,  hoping  to  be  made  a serjeant  and  to 
marry  Pierrette.  The  latter  wish  was  in  time  accom- 
plished through  the  benevolence  of  Marie  Antoinette, 
who,  finding  him  resolute  not  to  owe  the  attainment 
of  his  wishes  to  the  bounty  of  a patron,  herself  taught 
Pierrette  to  sing  and  act  in  the  opera  of  Hose  et  Colas , 
and  through  her  protection  the  debut  of  the  unknown 
actress  was  so  successful  that  in  one  representation  she 
earned  a suitable  portion  for  a soldier’s  wife.  The 
merit  of  this  little  anecdote  of  course  lies  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  details,  which,  for  nature  and  gracefulness 
would  do  credit  to  the  first  names  in  French  literature. 
Pierrette  died  young,  leaving  her  husband  with  two 
treasures,  an  only  daughter  and  a miniature  of  herself, 
painted  by  the  Princess  de  Lamballe.  Since  then  he 
had  lived  a life  of  obscure  integrity,  and  had  received 
all  the  military  honours  attainable  by  a private  soldier, 
but  no  promotion,  which,  indeed,  he  had  never  much 
sought,  thinking  it  a greater  honour  to  be  a serjeant 
in  the  guard  than  a captain  in  the  line.  “ How  poor,” 
thought  M.  de  Vigny,  “ are  the  mad  ambitions  and 
discontents  of  us  young  officers,  compared  with  the 
soul  of  a soldier  like  this,  scrupulous  of  his  honour,  and 
thinking  it  sullied  by  the  most  trifling  negligence  or 
breach  of  discipline  ; without  ambition,  vanity,  or 
luxury,  always  a slave,  and  always  content  and  proud 
of  his  servitude  ; his  dearest  recollection  being  one  of 
gratitude  ; and  believing  his  destiny  to  be  regulated  for 
his  good  by  an  overruling  Providence  !” 

An  hour  or  two  after  this  time  the  author  was 

17 


258 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


awakened  from  sleep  by  something  like  the  shock  of 
an  earthquake : part  of  one  of  the  powder  magazines 
had  exploded.  With  difficulty  and  peril  the  garrison 
stopped  the  spread  of  mischief.  On  reaching  the  seat 
of  the  catastrophe,  they  found  the  fragments  of  the 
body  of  the  old  adjutant,  who,  apparently  having  risen 
at  early  dawn  for  one  more  examination  of  the  powder, 
had,  by  some  accident,  set  it  on  fire.  The  King  pre- 
sently arrived  to  return  thanks  and  distribute  rewards : 
he  came,  and  departed.  “I  thought,”  says  M.  de  Vigny, 
“ of  the  family  of  the  poor  adjutant:  but  I was  alone  in 
thinking  of  them.  In  general,  when  princes  pass  any- 
where they  pass  too  quickly.” 

“ La  Vie  et  la  Mort  du  Capitaine  Renaud,  ou  La 
Canne  de  Jonc,”  is  a picture  of  a more  elevated 
description  than  either  of  these  two,  delineating  a 
character  of  greater  intellectual  power  and  a loftier 
moral  greatness.  Captain  Renaud  is  a philosopher ; 
one  like  those  of  old,  who  has  learnt  the  wisdom  of  life 
from  its  experiences ; has  weighed  in  the  balance  the 
greatnesses  and  littlenesses  of  the  world,  and  has 
carried  with  him  from  every  situation  in  which  he  has 
been  placed,  and  every  trial  and  temptation  to  which 
he  has  been  subject,  the  impressions  it  was  fitted  to 
leave  on  a thoughtful  and  sensitive  mind.  There  is  no 
story,  no  incident,  in  this  life ; there  is  but  a noble 
character,  unfolding  to  us  the  process  of  its  own 
formation ; not  so  much  telling  us,  as  making  us  see, 
how  one  circumstance  disabused  it  of  false  objects  of 
esteem  and  admiration,  how  another  revealed  to  it  the 
true.  We  feel  with  the  young  soldier  his  youthful 
enthusiasm  for  Napoleon,  and  for  all  of  which  that 
name  is  a symbol ; we  see  this  enthusiasm  die  within 
him  as  the  truth  dawns  upon  him  that  this  great  man 
is  an  actor,  that  the  prestige  with  which  he  overawed 
the  world  is  in  much,  if  not  in  the  largest  portion  of  it, 
the  effect  of  stage-trick,  and  that  a life  built  upon 
deception,  and  directed  to  essentially  selfish  ends,  is 
not  the  ideal  he  had  worshipped.  He  learns  to  know 
a real  hero  in  Collingwood,  whose  prisoner  he  is  for 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


259 


five  years ; and  never  was  that  most  beautiful  of  mili- 
tary and  naval  characters  drawn  in  a more  loving 
spirit,  or  with  a nobler  appreciation,  than  in  this  book. 
From  Collingwood,  all  his  life  a martyr  to  duty — the 
benignant  father  and  guardian  angel  of  all  under  his 
command — who  pining  for  an  English  home,  his  chil- 
dren growing  up  to  womanhood  without  having  seen 
him,  lived  and  died  at  sea,  because  his  country  or  his 
country’s  institutions  could  not  furnish  him  a successor ; 
— from  him  the  hero  of  our  author’s  tale  learnt  to 
exchange  the  paltry  admiration  of  mere  power  and 
success,  the  worship  of  the  vulgar  objects  of  ambition 
and  vanity,  for  a heartfelt  recognition  of  the  greatness 
of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice.  A spirit  like  that  of 
Collingwood  governed  and  pervaded  the  remainder  of 
his  life.  One  bitter  remembrance  he  had  : it  was  of  a 
night  attack  upon  a Russian  outpost,  in  which,  hardly 
awakened  from  sleep,  an  innocent  and  beautiful  youth, 
one  of  the  boys  of  fourteen  who  sometimes  held  officers’ 
commissions  in  the  Russian  army,  fell  dead  in  his 
gray-haired  father’s  sight,  by  the  unconscious  hand  of 
Renaud.  He  never  used  sabre  more,  and  was  known 
to  the  soldiers  by  carrying  ever  after  a canne  de  j one, 
which  dropped  from  the  dying  hand  of  the  poor  boy. 
Many  and  solemn  were  the  thoughts  on  war  and  the 
destiny  of  a soldier,  which  grew  in  him  from  this 
passage  in  his  life — nor  did  it  ever  cease  to  haunt  his 
remembrance,  and,  at  times,  vex  his  conscience  with 
misgivings.  Unambitious,  unostentatious,  and  there- 
fore unnoticed,  he  did  his  duty  always  and  everywhere 
without  reward  or  distinction,  until,  in  the  Three  Days 
of  July  1830,  a military  point  of  honour  retaining  him 
with  his  corps  on  the  Royalist  side,  he  received  his 
death- wound  by  a shot  from  a poor  street- boy — who 
tended  him  in  tears  and  remorse  in  his  last  moments, 
and  to  whom  he  left  by  will  a provision  for  his  educa- 
tion and  maintenance,  on  condition  that  he  should  not 
become  a soldier. 

Such  is  a brief  outline  of  this  remarkable  book  : to 
which  we  have  felt  throughout,  and  feel  still  more  on 

17—2 


260 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


looking  back,  what  scanty  justice  we  have  done. 
Among  the  writings  of  our  day  we  know  not  one  which 
breathes  a nobler  spirit,  or  in  which  every  detail  is 
conceived  and  wrought  out  in  a manner  more  worthy 
of  that  spirit.  But  whoever  would  know  what  it  is, 
must  read  the  book  itself.  No  resume  can  convey 
any  idea  of  it ; the  impression  it  makes  is  not  the  sum 
of  the  impressions  of  particular  incidents  or  particular 
sayings,  it  is  the  effect  of  the  tone  and  colouring  of  the 
whole.  We  do  not  seem  to  be  listening  to  the  author, 
to  be  receiving  a “moral”  from  any  of  his  stories,  or 
from  his  characters  an  “example”  prepense;  the  poem 
of  human  life  is  opened  before  us,  and  M.  de  Vigny 
does  but  chaunt  from  it,  in  a voice  of  subdued  sadness, 
a few  strains  telling  of  obscure  wisdom  and  unrewarded 
virtue ; of  those  antique  characters  which,  without  self- 
glorification  or  hope  of  being  appreciated,  “carry  out,” 
as  he  expresses  it,  “the  sentiment  of  duty  to  its  ex- 
tremest  consequences,”  and  whom  he  avers,  as  a matter 
of  personal  experience,  that  he  has  never  met  with  in 
any  walk  of  life  but  the  profession  of  arms. 

Stello  is  a work  of  similar  merit  to  the  Military 
Recollections,  though,  we  think,  somewhat  inferior. 
The  poet,  and  his  condition — the  function  he  has  to 
perform  in  the  world,  and  its  treatment  of  him — are 
the  subject  of  the  book.  Stello,  a young  poet,  having, 
it  would  appear,  no  personal  cause  of  complaint  against 
the  world,  but  subject  to  fits  of  nervous  despondency, 
seeks  relief  under  one  of  these  attacks  from  a myste- 
rious personage,  the  docteur  noir ; and  discloses  to  him 
that  in  his  ennui  and  his  thirst  for  activity  and  excite- 
ment, he  has  almost  determined  to  fling  himself  into 
politics,  and  sacrifice  himself  for  some  one  of  the 
parties  or  forms  of  government  which  are  struggling 
with  one  another  in  the  world.  The  doctor  prescribes 
to  him  three  stories,  exhibiting  the  fate  of  the  poet 
under  every  form  of  government,  and  the  fruitlessness 
of  his  expecting  from  the  world,  or  from  men  of  the 
world,  aught  but  negligence  or  contempt.  The  stories 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


261 


are  of  three  poets,  all  of  whom  the  docteur  noir  has 
seen  die,  as,  in  fact,  the  same  person  might  have  been 
present  at  all  their  deaths  : under  three  different 
governments — in  an  absolute  monarchy,  a constitu- 
tional government,  and  a democratic  revolution. 
Gilbert,  the  poet  and  satirist,  called  from  his  poverty 
Gilbert  sans-culotte,  who  died  mad  in  a hospital  at 
Paris,  he  who  wrote  in  the  last  days  of  his  life  the 
verses  beginning 

Au  banquet  de  la  vie  infortune  convive 
J’apparus  un  jour,  et  je  meurs 


Chatterton — 


the  marvellous  boy, 

The  sleepless  soul,  who  perished  in  his  pride 


driven  to  suicide  at  eighteen  by  the  anguish  of  dis- 
appointment and  neglect ; and  Andre  Chenier,  the 
elder  brother  of  Chenier  the  revolutionary  poet — 
whose  own  poems,  published  not  till  many  years  after 
his  death,  were  at  once  hailed  by  the  new  school  of 
poetry  in  France  as  having  anticipated  what  they  had 
since  done,  and  given  the  real  commencement  to  the 
new  era : he  perished  by  the  guillotine  only  two  days 
before  the  fall  of  Robespierre^;  on  the  scaffold  he 
exclaimed,  striking  his  forehead,  “ II  y avait  jpourtant 
quelque  chose  la  /”  The  stories  adhere  strictly  to  the 
spirit  of  history,  though  not  to  the  literal  facts,  and 
are,  as  usual,  beautifully  told,  especially  the  last  and 
most  elaborate  of  them,  “ Andre  Chenier.”  In  this 
tale  we  are  shown  the  prison  of  Saint-Lazare  during 
the  reign  of  terror,  and  the  courtesies  and  gallantries 
of  polished  life  still  blossoming  in  the  foulness  of  the 
dungeon  and  on  the  brink  of  the  tomb.  Madame  de 
St.  Aignan,  with  her  reserved  and  delicate  passion  for 
Andre  Chenier,  is  one  of  the  most  graceful  of  M.  de 
Vigny’s  creations.  We  are  brought  into  the  presence 
of  Robespierre  and  Saint-Just — who  are  drawn,  not 
indeed  like  Catoes  and  Brutuses,  though  there  have 
been  found  in  our  time  Frenchmen  not  indisposed  to 
take  that  view  of  them.  But  the  hatred  of  exaggera- 


262 


ALFKED  DE  VIGNY 


tion  which  always  characterizes  M.  de  Vigny,  does 
not  desert  him  here : the  terrorist  chiefs  do  not  figure 
in  his  pages  as  monsters  thirsting  for  blood,  nor  as 
hypocrites  and  impostors  with  merely  the  low  aims  of 
selfish  ambition  : either  of  these  representations  would 
have  been  false  to  history.  He  shows  us  these  men 
as  they  were,  as  such  men  could  not  but  have  been ; 
men  distinguished,  morally,  chiefly  by  two  qualities, 
entire  hardness  of  heart,  and  the  most  overweening 
and  bloated  self-conceit : for  nothing  less,  assuredly, 
could  lead  any  man  to  believe  that  his  individual 
judgment  respecting  the  public  good  is  a warrant  to 
him  for  exterminating  all  who  are  suspected  of  forming 
any  other  judgment,  and  for  setting  up  a machine  to 
cut  off  heads,  sixty  or  seventy  every  day,  till  some 
unknown  futurity  be  accomplished,  some  Utopia 
realized. 

The  lesson  which  the  docteur  noir  finds  in  these 
tragical  histories,  for  the  edification  of  poets,  is  still 
that  of  abnegation  : to  expect  nothing  for  themselves 
from  changes  in  society  or  in  political  institutions ; to 
renounce  for  ever  the  idea  that  the  world  will  or  can 
be  expected  to  fall  at  their  feet  and  worship  them ; 
to  consider  themselves,  once  for  all,  as  martyrs,  if  they 
ere  so,  and  instead  or  complaining,  to  take  up  their 
cross  and  bear  it. 

This  counsel  is  so  essentially  wise,  and  so  much 
required  everywhere,  but  above  all  in  France — where 
the  idea  that  intellect  ought  to  rule  the  world,  an 
idea  in  itself  true  and  just,  has  taken  such  root  that 
every  youth  who  fancies  himself  a thinker  or  an  artist 
thinks  that  he  has  a right  to  everything  society  has 
to  give,  and  deems  himself  the  victim  of  ingratitude 
because  he  is  not  loaded  with  its  riches  and  honours ; 
M.  de  Vigny  has  so  genuine  a feeling  of  the  true 
greatness  of  a poet,  of  the  spirit  which  has  dwelt  in 
all  poets  deserving  the  name  of  great — that  he  may 
be  pardoned  for  what  there  is  in  his  picture  of  a poet’s 
position  and  destiny  in  the  actual  world,  somewhat 
morbid  and  overcharged,  though  with  a foundation 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


263 


of  universal  truth.  It  is  most  true  that,  whether 
in  poetry  or  in  philosophy,  a person  endowed  in  any 
eminent  degree  with  genius — originality — the  gift  of 
seeing  truths  at  a greater  depth  than  the  world  can 
penetrate,  or  of  feeling  deeply  and  justly  things  which 
the  world  has  not  yet  learnt  to  feel — that  such  a person 
needs  not  hope  to  be  appreciated,  to  be  otherwise 
than  made  light  of  and  evil  entreated,  in  virtue  of 
what  is  greatest  in  him,  his  genius.  For  (except  in 
things  which  can  be  reduced  to  mathematical  demon- 
stration, or  made  obvious  to  sense)  that  which  all 
mankind  will  be  prepared  to  see  and  understand  to- 
morrow, it  cannot  require  much  genius  to  perceive 
to-day;  and  all  persons  of  distinguished  originality, 
whether  thinkers  or  artists,  are  subject  to  the  eternal 
law,  that  they  must  themselves  create  the  tastes  or  the 
habits  of  thought  by  means  of  which  they  will  after- 
wards be  appreciated.  No  great  poet  or  philosopher 
since  the  Christian  era  (apart  from  the  accident  of  a 
rich  patron)  could  have  gained  either  rank  or  subsist- 
ences a poet  or  a philosopher ; but  things  are  not,  and 
have  seldom  been,  so  badly  ordered  in  the  world,  as 
that  he  could  not  get  it  in  any  other  way.  Chatterton, 
and  probably  Gilbert,  could  have  earned  an  honest  live- 
lihood, if  their  inordinate  pride  would  have  accepted 
it  in  the  common  paths  of  obscure  industry.  And 
much  as  it  is  to  be  lamented,  for  the  world’s  sake  more 
than  that  of  the  individual,  that  they  who  are  equal 
to  the  noblest  things  are  not  reserved  for  such, — it 
is  nevertheless  true  that  persons  of  genius,  persons 
whose  superiority  is  that  they  can  do  what  others 
cannot  do,  can  generally  also,  if  they  choose,  do  better 
than  others  that  which  others  do,  and  which  others 
are  willing  to  honour  and  reward.  If  they  cannot,  it 
is  usually  from  something  ill  regulated  in  themselves, 
something,  to  be  cured  of  which  would  be  for  the 
health  even  of  their  own  minds ; perhaps  oftenest 
because  they  will  not  take  the  pains  which  less  gifted 
persons  are  willing  to  take,  though  less  than  half  as 
much  would  suffice,  because  the  habit  of  doing  with 


264 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


ease  things  on  a large  scale,  makes  them  impatient  of 
slow  and  unattractive  toil.  It  is  their  own  choice, 
then.  If  they  wish  for  worldly  honour  and  profit,  let 
them  seek  it  in  the  way  others  do  ; the  struggle  indeed 
is  hard,  and  the  attainment  uncertain,  but  not  specially 
so  to  them ; on  the  contrary,  they  have  advantages  over 
most  of  their  competitors.  If  they  prefer  theJ  nobler 
vocation,  they  have  no  cause  of  quarrel  with  the  world 
because  they  follow  that  vocation  under  the  conditions 
necessarily  implied  in  it.  If  it  were  possible  that  they 
should  from  the  first  have  the  acclamations  of  the 
world,  they  could  not  be  deserving  of  them  ; ail  they 
could  be  doing  for  the  world  must  be  comparatively 
little : they  could  not  be  the  great  men  they  fancy 
themselves. 

A story,  or  a poem,  might  nevertheless  be  con- 
ceived, which  would  throw  tenfold  more  light  upon 
the  poetic  character,  and  upon  the  condition  of  a 
poet  in  the  world,  than  any  instance,  either  historical 
or  fictitious,  of  the  world’s  undervaluing  of  him,  It 
would  exhibit  the  sufferings  of  a poet,  not  from 
mortified  vanity,  but  from  the  poetic  temperament 
itself  — under  arrangements  of  society  made  by  and 
for  harder  natures,  and  in  a world  which,  for  any  but 
the  unsensitive,  is  not  a place  of  contentment  ever, 
nor  of  peace  till  after  many  a hard-fought  battle. 
That  M.  de  Vigny  could  conceive  such  a subject  in 
the  spirit  in  which  it  should  be  conceived,  is  clear 
from  the  signs  by  which  his  Stello  recognises  himself 
as  a poet.  “ Because  there  is  in  nature  no  beauty, 
nor  grandeur,  nor  harmony,  which  does  not  cause  in 
me  a prophetic  thrill — which  does  not  fill  me  with  a 
deep  emotion,  and  swell  my  eyelids  with  tears  divine 
and  inexplicable.  Because  of  the  infinite  pity  I feel 
for  mankind,  my  companions  in  suffering,  and  the 
eager  desire  I feel  to  hold  out  my  hand  to  them,  and 
raise  them  incessantly  by  words  of  commiseration  and 
of  love.  Because  I feel  in  my  inmost  being  an  in- 
visible and  undefinable  power  which  resembles  a 
presentiment  of  the  future,  and  a revelation  of  the 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


265 


mysterious  causes  of  the  present”:  a presentiment 
which  is  not  always  imaginary,  but  often  the  instinc- 
tive insight  of  a sensitive  nature,  which  from  its  finer 
texture  vibrates  to  impressions  so  evanescent  as  to  be 
unfelt  by  others,  and,  by  that  faculty  as  by  an  addi- 
tional sense,  is  apprised,  it  cannot  tell  how,  of  things 
without,  which  escape  the  cognizance  of  the  less 
delicately  organized. 

These  are  the  tests,  or  some  of  the  tests,  of  a poetic 
nature  ; and  it  must  be  evident  that  to  such,  even 
when  supported  by  a positive  religious  faith,  and  that 
a cheerful  one,  this  life  is  naturally,  or  at  least  may 
easily  be,  a vale  of  tears ; a place  in  which  there  is 
no  rest.  The  poet  who  would  speak  of  such,  must  do 
it  in  the  spirit  of  those  beautiful  lines  of  Shelley — him- 
self the  most  perfect  type  of  that  which  he  described  : 

High,  spirit-winged  heart,  who  dost  for  ever 
Beat  thine  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  endeavour, 

Till  those  bright  plumes  of  thought,  in  which  arrayed 
It  over-soared  this  low  and  worldly  shade, 

Lie  shattered,  and  thy  panting  wounded  breast 
Stains  with  dear  blood  its  unmaternal  nest ! 

I weep  vain  tears  : blood  would  less  bitter  be, 

Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit  thee. 

The  remainder  of  M.  de  Vigny’s  works  are  plays 
and  poems.  The  plays  are  Le  More  de  Venise , a 
well-executed  and  very  close  translation  of  Othello ; 
La  Marechale  d’Ancre,  from  the  same  period  of 
history  as  Cinq-Mars ; and  Chatterton , the  story  in 
Stello , with  the  characters  more  developed,  the  out- 
line more  filled  up.  Without  disparagement  to  these 
works,  we  think  the  narrative  style  more  suitable 
than  the  dramatic  to  the  quality  of  M.  de  Vigny’s 
genius.  If  we  had  not  read  these  plays,  we  should 
not  have  known  how  much  of  the  impressiveness  of 
his  other  writings  comes  from  his  own  presence  in 
them  (if  the  expression  may  be  allowed),  animating 
and  harmonizing  the  picture,  by  blending  with  its 
natural  tints  the  colouring  of  his  own  feelings  and 
character. 


266 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


Of  the  poems  much  were  to  be  said,  if  a foreigner 
could  be  considered  altogether  a competent  judge  of 
them.  For  our  own  part  we  confess  that,  of  the  ad- 
mirable poetry  to  be  found  in  French  literature,  that 
part  is  most  poetry  to  us,  which  is  written  in  prose. 
In  regard  to  verse -writing,  we  would  even  exceed  the 
severity  of  Horace’s  precept  against  mediocrity ; we 
hold,  that  nothing  should  be  written  in  verse  which  is 
not  exquisite.  In  prose,  anything  may  be  said  which 
is  worth  saying  at  all  ; in  verse,  only  what  is  worth 
saying  better  than  prose  can  say  it.  The  gems  alone 
of  thought  and  fancy,  are  worth  setting  with  so  finished 
and  elaborate  a workmanship  ; and  even  of  them, 
those  only  whose  effect  is  heightened  by  it : which 
takes  place  under  two  conditions  ; and  in  one  or  other 
of  these  two,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  must  be  found 
the  origin  and  justification  of  all  composition  in  verse. 
A thought  or  feeling  requires  verse  for  its  adequate 
expression,  when  in  order  that  it  may  dart  into  the 
soul  with  the  speed  of  a lightning-flash,  the  ideas  or 
images  that  are  to  convey  it  require  to  be  pressed 
closer  together  than  is  compatible  with  the  rigid 
grammatical  construction  of  the  prose  sentence.  One 
recommendation  of  verse,  therefore,  is,  that  it  affords 
a language  more  condensed  than  prose.  The  other  is 
derived  from  one  of  the  natural  laws  of  the  human 
mind,  in  the  utterance  of  its  thoughts  impregnated 
with  its  feelings.  All  emotion  which  has  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  whole  being — which  flows  unresistedly, 
and  therefore  equably — instinctively  seeks  a language 
that  flows  equably  like  itself  ; and  must  either  find  it, 
or  be  conscious  of  an  unsatisfied  want,  which  even 
impedes  and  prematurely  stops  the  flow  of  the  feeling. 
Hence,  ever  since  man  has  been  man,  all  deep  and 
sustained  feeling  has  tended  to  express  itself  in  rhyth- 
mical language ; and  the  deeper  the  feeling,  the  more 
characteristic  and  decided  the  rhythm ; provided 
always  the  feeling  be  sustained  as  well  as  deep ; for,  a 
fit  of  passion  has  no  natural  connexion  with  verse  or 
music,  a mood  of  passion  has  the  strongest.  No  one, 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


267 


who  does  not  hold  this  distinction  in  view,  will  com- 
prehend the  importance  which  the  Greek  lawgivers 
and  philosophers  attached  to  music,  and  which  appears 
inexplicable  till  we  understand  how  perpetual  an  aim 
of  their  polity  it  was  to  subdue  fits  of  passion,  and  to 
sustain  and  reinforce  moods  of  it.*  This  view  of  the 
origin  of  rhythmic  utterance  in  general,  and  verse  in 
particular,  naturally  demands  short  poems,  it  being 
impossible  that  a feeling  so  intense  as  to  require  a 
more  rhythmical  cadence  than  that  of  eloquent  prose, 
should  sustain  itself  at  its  highest  elevation  for  long 
together  ; and  we  think  (heretical  as  the  opinion  may 
be)  that,  except  in  the  ages  when  the  absence  of  written 
books  occasioned  all  things  to  be  thrown  into  verse  for 
facility  of  memory,  or  in  those  other  ages  in  which 
writing  in  verse  may  happen  to  be  a fashion,  a long 
poem  will  always  be  felt  (though  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously) to  be  something  unnatural  and  hollow ; 
something  which  it  requires  the  genius  of  a Homer,  a 
Dante,  or  a Milton,  to  induce  posterity  to  read,  or  at 
least  to  read  through. 

Verse,  then,  being  only  allowable  where  prose  would 
be  inadequate ; and  the  inadequacy  of  prose  arising 
either  from  its  not  being  sufficiently  condensed,  or 
from  its  not  having  cadence  enough  to  express  sus- 
tained passion,  which  is  never  long-winded — it  follows, 
that  if  prolix  writing  is  vulgarly  called  prosy  writing, 
a very  true  feeling  of  the  distinction  between  verse  and 
prose  shows  itself  in  the  vulgarism ; and  that  the  one 
unpardonable  sin  in  a versified  composition,  next  to 
the  absence  of  meaning,  and  of  true  meaning,  is  diffuse- 

* The  Dorian  mood 

Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders  ; such  as  raised 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle  ; and,  instead  of  rage , 

Deliberate  valour  breathed , firm  and  unmoved 
With  dread  of  death,  to  flight  or  foul  retreat : 

Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage, 

With  solemn  touches,  troubled  thoughts,  and  chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow  and  pain, 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds. 


268 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


ness.  From  this  sin  it  will  be  impossible  to  exculpate 
M.  Alfred  de  Vigny.  His  poems,  graceful  and  often 
fanciful  though  they  be,  are,  to  us,  marred  by  their 
diffuseness. 

Of  the  more  considerable  among  them,  that  which 
most  resembles  what,  in  our  conception,  a poem  ought 
to  be,  is  Mo'ise.  The  theme  is  still  the  sufferings  of 
the  man  of  genius,  the  inspired  man,  the  intellectual 
ruler  and  seer : not,  however,  this  time,  the  great  man 
persecuted  by  the  world,  but  the  great  man  honoured 
by  it,  and  in  his  natural  place  at  the  helm  of  it,  he  on 
whom  all  rely,  whom  all  reverence — Moses  on  Pisgah, 
Moses  the  appointed  of  God,  the  judge,  captain  and 
hierarch  of  the  chosen  race — crying  to  God  in  anguish 
of  spirit  for  deliverance  and  rest ; that  the  cares  and 
toils,  the  weariness  and  solitariness  of  heart,  of  him 
who  is  lifted  altogether  above  his  brethren,  be  no  longer 
imposed  upon  him— that  the  Almighty  may  withdraw 
his  gifts,  and  suffer  him  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  common 
humanity.  His  cry  is  heard ; when  the  clouds  dis- 
perse, which  veiled  the  summit  of  the  mountain  from 
the  Israelites  waiting  in  prayer  and  prostration  at  its 
foot,  Moses  is  no  more  seen  : and  now,  “ marching 
towards  the  promised  land,  Joshua  advanced,  pale  and 
pensive  of  mien  ; for  he  was  already  the  chosen  of  the 
Omnipotent.  ” 

The  longest  of  the  poems  is  Eloa  ; or,  the  Sister  of 
the  Angels  ; a story  of  a bright  being,  created  from  a 
tear  of  the  Redeemer,  and  who  falls,  tempted  by  pity 
for  the  Spirit  of  Darkness.  The  idea  is  fine,  and  the 
details  graceful,  a word  we  have  often  occasion  to  use 
in  speaking  of  M.  de  Vigny : but  this  and  most  of  his 
other  poems  are  written  in  the  heroic  verse,  that  is  to 
say,  he  has  aggravated  the  imperfections,  for  his  pur- 
pose, of  the  most  prosaic  language  in  Europe,  by 
choosing  to  write  in  its  most  prosaic  metre.  The 
absence  of  prosody,  of  long  and  short  or  accented  and 
unaccented  syllables,  renders  the  French  language 
essentially  unmusical ; while — the  unbending  structure 
of  its  sentence,  of  which  there  is  essentially  but  one 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 


269 


type  for  verse  and  prose,  almost  precluding  inversions 
and  elisions — all  the  screws  and  pegs  of  the  prose  sen- 
tence are  retained  to  encumber  the  verse.  If  it  is  to  be 
raised  at  all  above  prose,  variety  of  rhythm  must  be 
sought  in  variety  of  versification  ; there  is  no  room  for 
it  in  the  monotonous  structure  of  the  heroic  metre. 
Where  is  it  that  Racine,  always  an  admirable  writer, 
appears  to  us  more  than  an  admirable  prose  writer  ? 
In  his  irregular  metres — in  the  choruses  of  Esther  and 
of  Athalie.  It  is  not  wonderful  then  if  the  same  may 
be  said  of  M.  de  Vigny.  We  shall  conclude  with  the 
following  beautiful  little  poem,  one  of  the  few  which 
he  has  produced  in  the  style  and  measure  of  lyric 
verse  : 

Viens  sur  la  mer,  jeune  fille, 

Sois  sans  effroi ; 

Viens  sans  tresor,  sans  famille, 

Seule  avec  moi. 

Mon  bateau  sur  les  eaux  brille, 

Voi  ses  mats,  voi 

Ses  pavilions  et  sa  quille. 

Ce  n’est  rien  qu’une  coquille, 

Mais  j’y  suis  roi. 

Pour  l’esclave  on  fit  la  terre, 

O ma  beaute  ! 

Mais  pour  l’homme  libre,  austere 
L’immensite. 

Les  flots  savent  un  mystere 
De  volupte  : 

Leur  soupir  involontaire 

Veut  dire  : amour  solitaire, 

Et  liberte. 


BENTHAM* 


There  are  two  men,  recently  deceased,  to  whom  their 
country  is  indebted  not  only  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
important  ideas  which  have  been . thrown  into  circula- 
tion among  its  thinking  men  in  their  time,  but  for  a 
revolution  in  its  general  modes  of  thought  and  investi- 
gation. These  men,  dissimilar  in  almost  all  else,  agreed 
in  being  closet-students — secluded  in  a peculiar  degree, 
by  circumstances  and  character,  from  the  business  and 
intercourse  of  the  world : and  both  were,  through  a 
large  portion  of  their  lives,  regarded  by  those  who  took 
the  lead  in  opinion  (when  they  happened  to  hear  of 
them)  with  feelings  akin  to  contempt.  But  they  were 
destined  to  renew  a lesson  given  to  mankind  by  every 
age,  and  always  disregarded — to  show  that  speculative 
philosophy,  which  to  the  superficial  appears  a thing  so 
remote  from  the  business  of  life  and  the  outward  in- 
terests of  men,  is  in  reality  the  thing  on  earth  which 
most  influences  them,  and  in  the  long  run  overbears 
every  other  influence  save  those  which  it  must  itself 
obey.  The  writers  of  whom  we  speak  have  never  been 
read  by  the  multitude ; except  for  the  more  slight 
of  their  works,  their  readers  have  been  few  : but  they 
have  been  the  teachers  of  the  teachers ; there  is  hardly 
to  be  found  in  England  an  individual  of  any  importance 
in  the  world  of  mind,  who  (whatever  opinions  he  may 
have  afterwards  adopted)  did  not  first  learn  to  think 
from  one  of  these  two  ; and  although  their  influences 
have  but  begun  to  diffuse  themselves  through  these 
intermediate  channels  over  society  at  large,  there  is 
already  scarcely  a publication  of  any  consequence  ad- 
dressed to  the  educated  classes,  which,  if  these  persons 
had  not  existed,  would  not  have  been  different  from 
* London  and  Westminster  Review,  August,  1838. 

270 


BENTHAM 


271 


what  it  is.  These  men  are,  Jeremy  Bentham  and 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge — the  two  great  seminal  minds 
of  England  in  their  age. 

No  comparison  is  intended  here  between  the  minds 
or  influences  of  these  remarkable  men  : this  were  im- 
possible unless  there  were  first  formed  a complete 
judgment  of  each,  considered  apart.  It  is  our  inten- 
tion to  attempt,  on  the  present  occasion,  an  estimate  of 
one  of  them  ; the  only  one,  a complete  edition  of  whose 
works  is  yet  in  progress,  and  who,  in  the  classification 
which  may  be  made  of  all  writers  into  Progressive  and 
Conservative,  belongs  to  the  same  division  with  our- 
selves. For  although  they  were  far  too  great  men  to 
be  correctly  designated  by  either  appellation  exclusively, 
yet  in  the  main,  Bentham  was  a Progressive  philoso- 
pher, Coleridge  a Conservative  one.  The  influence  of 
the  former  has  made  itself  felt  chiefly  on  minds  of  the 
Progressive  class ; of  the  latter,  on  those  of  the  Con- 
servative : and  the  two  systems  of  concentric  circles 
which  the  shock  given  by  them  is  spreading  over  the 
ocean  of  mind_,  have  only  just  begun  to  meet  and  inter- 
sect. The  writings  of  both  contain  severe  lessons  to 
their  own  side,  on  many  of  the  errors  and  faults  they 
are  addicted  to  : but  to  Bentham  it  was  given  to  dis- 
cern more  particularly  those  truths  with  which  existing 
doctrines  and  institutions  were  at  variance ; to  Coleridge_, 
the  neglected  truths  which  lay  in  them. 

A man  of  great  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  of  the 
highest  reputation  for  practical  talent  and  sagacity 
among  the  official  men  of  his  time  (himself  no  follower 
of  Bentham,  nor  of  any  partial  or  exclusive  school 
whatever)  once  said  to  us,  as  the  result  of  his  observa- 
tion, that  to  Bentham  more  than  to  any  other  source 
might  be  traced  the  questioning  spirit,  the  disposition 
to  demand  the  why  of  everything,  which  had  gained  so 
much  ground  and  was  producing  such  important  conse- 
quences in  these  times.  The  more  this  assertion  is 
examined,  the  more  true  it  will  be  found.  Bentham 
has  been  in  this  age  and  country  the  great  questioner 


272 


BENTHAM 


of  things  established.  It  is  by  the  influence  of  the 
modes  of  thought  with  which  his  writings  inoculated  a 
considerable  number  of  thinking  men,  that  the  yoke  of 
authority  has  been  broken,  and  innumerable  opinions, 
formerly  received  on  tradition  as  incontestable,  are  put 
upon  their  defence,  and  required  to  give  an  account  of 
themselves.  Who,  before  Bentham,  (whatever  con- 
troversies might  exist  on  points  of  detail,)  dared  to 
speak  disrespectfully,  in  express  terms,  of  the  British 
Constitution,  or  the  English  Law  ? He  did  so  ; and 
his  arguments  and  his  example  together  encouraged 
others.  We  do  not  mean  that  his  writings  caused  the 
Beform  Bill,  or  that  the  Appropriation  Clause  owns  him 
as  its  parent : the  changes  which  have  been  made,  and 
the  greater  changes  which  will  be  made,  in  our  institu- 
tions, are  not  the  work  of  philosophers,  but  of  the 
interest  and  instincts  of  large  portions  of  society 
recently  grown  into  strength.  But  Bentham  gave 
voice  to  those  interests  and  instincts : until  he  spoke 
out,  those  who  found  our  institutions  unsuited  to  them 
did  not  dare  to  say  so,  did  not  dare  consciously  to  think 
so ; they  had  never  heard  the  excellence  of  those 
institutions  questioned  by  cultivated  men,  by  men  of 
acknowledged  intellect ; and  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of 
uninstructed  minds  to  resist  the  united  authority  of  the 
instructed.  Bentham  broke  the  spell.  It  was  not 
Bentham  by  his  own  writings ; it  was  Bentham 
through  the  minds  and  pens  which  those  writings 
fed — through  the  men  in  more  direct  contact  with  the 
world,  into  whom  his  spirit  passed.  If  the  superstition 
about  ancestorial  wisdom  has  fallen  into  decay  ; if  the 
public  are  grown  familiar  with  the  idea  that  their  laws 
and  institutions  are  in  great  part  not  the  product  of 
intellect  and  virtue,  but  of  modern  corruption  grafted 
upon  ancient  barbarism ; if  the  hardiest  innovation  is 
no  longer  scouted  because  it  is  an  innovation — estab- 
lishments no  longer  considered  sacred  because  they  are 
establishments— it  will  be  found  that  those  who  have 
accustomed  the  public  mind  to  these  ideas  have  learnt 
them  in  Bentham’s  school,  and  that  the  assault  on 


BENTHAM 


278 


ancient  institutions  has  been,  and  is,  carried  on  for  the 
most  part  with  his  weapons.  It  matters  not  although 
these  thinkers,  or  indeed  thinkers  of  any  description, 
have  been  but  scantily  found  among  the  persons  promi- 
nently and  ostensibly  at  the  head  of  the  Reform  move- 
ment. All  movements,  except  directly  revolutionary 
ones,  are  headed,  not  by  those  who  originate  them,  but 
by  those  who  know  best  how  to  compromise  between 
the  old  opinions  and  the  new.  The  father  of  English 
innovation,  both  in  doctrines  and  in  institutions,  is 
Bentham : he  is  the  great  subversive , or,  in  the 
language  of  continental  philosophers,  the  great  critical , 
thinker  of  his  age  and  country. 

We  consider  this,  however,  to  be  not  his  highest  title 
to  fame.  Were  this  all,  he  were  only  to  be  ranked 
among  the  lowest  order  of  the  potentates  of  mind — the 
negative,  or  destructive  philosophers ; those  who  can 
perceive  what  is  false,  but  not  what  is  true  ; who 
awaken  the  human  mind  to  the  inconsistencies  and 
absurdities  of  time-sanctioned  opinions  and  institu- 
tions, but  substitute  nothing  in  the  place  of  what  they 
take  away.  We  have  no  desire  to  undervalue  the 
services  of  such  persons  : mankind  have  been  deeply 
indebted  to  them  ; nor  will  there  ever  be  a lack  of 
work  for  them,  in  a world  in  which  so  many  false 
things  are  believed,  in  which  so  many  which  have 
been  true,  are  believed  long  after  they  have  ceased  to 
be  true.  The  qualities,  however,  which  fit  men  for 
perceiving  anomalies,  without  perceiving  the  truths 
which  would  rectify  them,  are  not  among  the  rarest 
of  endowments.  Courage,  verbal  acuteness,  command 
over  the  forms  of  argumentation,  and  a popular  style, 
will  make,  out  of  the  shallowest  man,  with  a sufficient 
lack  of  reverence,  a considerable  negative  philosopher. 
Such  men  have  never  been  wanting  in  periods  of 
culture  ; and  the  period  in  which  Bentham  formed  his 
early  impressions  was  emphatically  their  reign,  in 
proportion  to  its  barrenness  in  the  more  noble  products 
of  the  human  mind.  An  age  of  formalism  in  the 
Church  and  corruption  in  the  State,  when  the  most 

18 


274 


BENTHAM 


valuable  part  of  the  meaning  of  traditional  doctrines 
had  faded  from  the  minds  even  of  those  who  retained 
from  habit  a mechanical  belief  in  them,  was  the  time 
to  raise  up  all  kinds  of  sceptical  philosophy.  Accord- 
ingly, France  had  Voltaire,  and  his  school  of  negative 
thinkers,  and  England  (or  rather  Scotland)  had  the 
profoundest  negative  thinker  on  record,  David  Hume  : 
a man,  the  peculiarities  of  whose  mind  qualified  him 
to  detect  failure  of  proof,  and  want  of  logical  consis- 
tency, at  a depth  which  French  sceptics,  with  their 
comparatively  feeble  powers  of  analysis  and  abstrac- 
tion, stopt  far  short  of,  and  which  German  subtlety 
alone  could  thoroughly  appreciate,  or  hope  to  rival. 

If  Bentham  had  merely  continued  the  work  of  Hume, 
he  would  scarcely  have  been  heard  of  in  philosophy ; 
for  he  was  far  inferior  to  Hume  in  Hume’s  qualities, 
and  was  in  no  respect  fitted  to  excel  as  a meta- 
physician. We  must  not  look  for  subtlety,  or  the 
power  of  recondite  analysis,  among  his  intellectual 
characteristics.  In  the  former  quality,  few  great 
thinkers  have  ever  been  so  deficient ; and  to  find  the 
latter,  in  any  considerable  measure,  in  a mind  acknow- 
ledging any  kindred  with  his,  we  must  have  recourse 
to  the  late  Mr.  Mill — a man  who  united  the  great 
qualities  of  the  metaphysicians  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  with  others  of  a different  complexion,  ad- 
mirably qualifying  him  to  complete  and  correct  their 
work.  Bentham  had  not  these  peculiar  gifts  ; but  he 
possessed  others,  not  inferior,  which  were  not  possessed 
by  any  of  his  precursors  ; which  have  made  him  a 
source  of  light  to  a generation  which  has  far  outgrown 
their  influence,  and,  as  we  called  him,  the  chief  sub- 
versive thinker  of  an  age  which  has  long  lost  all  that 
they  could  subvert. 

To  speak  of  him  first  as  a merely  negative  philo- 
sopher— as  one  who  refutes  illogical  arguments,  ex- 
poses sophistry,  detects  contradiction  and  absurdity ; 
even  in  that  capacity  there  was  a wide  field  left  vacant 
for  him  by  Hume,  and  he  has  occupied  it  to  an 
unprecedented  extent;  the  field  of  practical  abuses. 


BENTHAM 


275 


This  was  Bentham’s  peculiar  province  : to  this  he  was 
called  by  the  whole  bent  of  his  disposition : to  carry  the 
warfare  against  absurdity  into  things  practical.  His 
was  an  essentially  practical  mind.  It  was  by  practical 
abuses  that  his  mind  was  first  turned  to  speculation — 
by  the  abuses  of  the  profession  which  was  chosen  for 
him,  that  of  the  law.  He  has  himself  stated  what 
particular  abuse  first  gave  that  shock  to  his  mind,  the 
recoil  of  which  has  made  the  whole  mountain  of  abuse 
totter ; it  was  the  custom  of  making  the  client  pay  for 
three  attendances  in  the  offices  of  a Master  in  Chan- 
cery, when  only  one  was  given.  The  law,  he  found,  on 
examination,  was  full  of  such  things.  But  were  these 
discoveries  of  his?  No;  they  were  known  to  every 
lawyer  who  practised,  to  every  judge  who  sat  on  the 
bench,  and  neither  before  nor  for  long  after  did  they 
cause  any  apparent  uneasiness  to  the  consciences  of 
these  learned  persons,  nor  hinder  them  from  asserting, 
whenever  occasion  offered,  in  books,  in  parliament,  or 
on  the  bench,  that  the  law  was  the  perfection  of  reason. 
During  so  many  generations,  in  each  of  which  thousands 
of  well-educated  young  men  were  successively  placed 
in  Bentham’s  position  and  with  Bentham’s  opportuni- 
ties, he  alone  was  found  with  sufficient  moral  sensibility 
and  self-reliance  to  say  to  himself  that  these  things, 
however  profitable  they  might  be,  were  frauds,  and 
that  between  them  and  himself  there  should  be  a gulf 
fixed.  To  this  rare  union  of  self-reliance  and  moral 
sensibility  we  are  indebted  for  all  that  Bentham  has 
done.  Sent  to  Oxford  by  his  father  at  the  unusually 
early  age  of  fifteen — required,  on  admission,  to  declare 
his  belief  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles — he  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  examine  them ; and  the  examination  suggested 
scruples,  which  he  sought  to  get  removed,  but  instead  of 
the  satisfaction  he  expected,  he  was  told  that  it  was  not 
for  boys  like  him  to  set  up  their  judgment  against  the 
great  men  of  the  Church.  After  a struggle,  he  signed ; 
but  the  impression  that  he  had  done  an  immoral  act, 
never  left  him  ; he  considered  himself  to  have  com- 
mitted a falsehood,  and  throughout  life  he  never  re- 

18—2 


276 


BENTHAM 


laxed  in  his  indignant  denunciations  of  all  laws  which 
command  such  falsehoods,  all  institutions  which  attach 
rewards  to  them. 

By  thus  carrying  the  war  of  criticism  and  refutation, 
the  conflict  with  falsehood  and  absurdity,  into  the  field 
of  practical  evils,  Bentham,  even  if  he  had  done  nothing 
else,  would  have  earned  an  important  place  in  the 
history  of  intellect.  He  carried  on  the  warfare  without 
intermission.  To  this,  not  only  many  of  his  most 
piquant  chapters,  but  some  of  the  most  finished  of  his 
entire  works,  are  entirely  devoted  : the  Defence  of 
Usury ; the  Book  of  Fallacies ; and  the  onslaught 
upon  Blackstone,  published  anonymously  under  the 
title  of  A Fragment  on  Government , which,  though  a 
first  production,  and  of  a writer  afterwards  so  much 
ridiculed  for  his  style,  excited  the  highest  admiration 
no  less  for  its  composition  than  for  its  thoughts,  and 
was  attributed  by  turns  to  Lord  Mansfield,  to  Lord 
Camden,  and  (by  Dr.  Johnson)  to  Dunning,  one  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  style  among  the  lawyers  of  his 
day.  These  writings  are  altogether  original ; though 
of  the  negative  school,  they  resemble  nothing  pre- 
viously produced  by  negative  philosophers ; and  would 
have  sufficed  to  create  for  Bentham,  among  the  sub- 
versive thinkers  of  modern  Europe,  a place  peculiarly 
his  own.  But  it  is  not  these  writings  that  constitute 
the  real  distinction  between  him  and  them.  There  was 
a deeper  difference.  It  was  that  they  were  purely 
negative  thinkers,  he  was  positive : they  only  assailed 
error,  he  made  it  a point  of  conscience  not  to  do  so 
until  he  thought  he  could  plant  instead  the  correspond- 
ing truth.  Their  character  was  exclusively  analytic, 
his  was  synthetic.  They  took  for  their  starting-point 
the  received  opinion  on  any  subject,  dug  round  it  with 
their  logical  implements,  pronounced  its  foundations 
defective,  and  condemned  it : he  began  de  novo,  laid 
his  own  foundations  deeply  and  firmly,  built  up  his 
own  structure,  and  bade  mankind  compare  the  two ; it 
was  when  he  had  solved  the  problem  himself,  or  thought 
he  had  done  so,  that  he  declared  all  other  solutions  to 


BENTHAM 


277 


be  erroneous.  Hence,  what  they  produced  will  not 
last ; it  must  perish,  much  of  it  has  already  perished, 
with  the  errors  which  it  exploded : what  he  did  has  its 
own  value,  by  which  it  must  outlast  all  errors  to  which 
it  is  opposed.  Though  we  may  reject,  as  we  often 
must,  his  practical  conclusions,  yet  his  premises,  the 
collections  of  facts  and  observations  from  which  his 
conclusions  were  drawn,  remain  for  ever,  a part  of  the 
materials  of  philosophy. 

A place,  therefore,  must  be  assigned  to  Bentham 
among  the  masters  of  wisdom,  the  great  teachers  and 
permanent  intellectual  ornaments  of  the  human  race. 
He  is  among  those  who  have  enriched  mankind  with 
imperishable  gifts  ; and  although  these  do  not  trans- 
cend all  other  gifts,  nor  entitle  him  to  those  honours 
“ above  all  Greek,  above’all  Roman  fame,”  which  by  a 
natural  reaction  against  the  neglect  and  contempt  of 
the  world,  many  of  his  admirers  were  once  disposed 
to  accumulate  upon  him,  yet  to  refuse  an  admiring 
recognition  of  what  he  was,  on  account  of  what  he  was 
not,  is  a much  worse  error,  and  one  which,  pardonable 
in  the  vulgar,  is  no  longer  permitted  to  any  cultivated 
and  instructed  mind. 

If  we  were  asked  to  say,  in  the  fewest  possible  words, 
what  we  conceive  to  be  Bentham’s  place  among  these 
great  intellectual  benefactors  of  humanity;  what  he 
was,  and  what  he  was  not;  what  kind  of  service  he  did 
and  did  not  render  to  truth  ; we  should  say — he  was 
not  a great  philosopher,  but  he  was  a great  reformer 
in  philosophy.  He  brought  into  philosophy  something 
which  it  greatly  needed,  and  for  want  of  which  it  was 
at  a stand.  It  was  not  his  doctrines  which  did  this,  it 
was  his  mode  of  arriving  at  them.  He  introduced  into 
morals  and  politics  those  habits  of  thought  and  modes 
of  investigation,  which  are  essential  to  the  idea  of 
science ; and  the  absence  of  which  made  those  depart- 
ments of  inquiry,  as  physics  had  been  before  Bacon,  a 
field  of  interminable  discussion,  leading  to  no  result 
It  was  not  his  opinions,  in  short,  but  his  method,  that 
constituted  the  novelty  and  the  value  of  what  he  did ; 


278 


BENTHAM 


a value  beyond  all  price,  even  though  we  should  reject 
the  whole,  as  we  unquestionably  must  a large  part,  of 
the  opinions  themselves. 

Bentham’s  method  may  be  shortly  described  as  the 
method  of  detail ; of  treating  wholes  by  separating 
them  into  their  parts,  abstractions  by  resolving  them 
into  Things, — classes  and  generalities  by  distinguishing 
them  into  the  individuals  of  which  they  are  made  up  ; 
and  breaking  every  question  into  pieces  before  attempt- 
ing to  solve  it.  The  precise  amount  of  originality  of 
this  process,  considered  as  a logical  conception — its 
degree  of  connexion  with  the  methods  of  physical 
science,  or  with  the  previous  labours  of  Bacon,  Hobbes, 
or  Locke — is  not  an  essential  consideration  in  this 
place.  Whatever  originality  there  was  in  the  method 
— in  the  subjects  he  applied  it  to,  and  in  the  rigidity 
with  which  he  adhered  to  it,  there  was  the  greatest. 
Hence  his  interminable  classifications.  Hence  his 
elaborate  demonstrations  of  the  most  acknowledged 
truths.  That  murder,  incendiarism,  robbery,  are  mis- 
chievous actions,  he  will  not  take  for  granted  without 
proof ; let  the  thing  appear  ever  so  self-evident,  he  will 
know  the  why  and  the  how  of  it  with  the  last  degree 
of  precision ; he  will  distinguish  all  the  different  mis- 
chiefs of  a crime,  whether  of  the  first,  the  second , or 
the  third  order,  namely,  1,  the  evil  to  the  sufferer, 
and  to  his  personal  connexions ; 2,  the  danger  from 
example,  and  the  alarm  or  painful  feeling  of  inse- 
curity; and  8,  the  discouragement  to  industry  and 
useful  pursuits  arising  from  the  alarm , and  the  trouble 
and  resources  which  must  be  expended  in  warding  off 
the  danger . After  this  enumeration,  he  will  prove 
from  the  laws  of  human  feeling,  that  even  the  first  of 
these  evils,  the  sufferings  of  the  immediate  victim,  will 
on  the  average  greatly  outweigh  the  pleasure  reaped 
by  the  offender ; much  more  when  all  the  other  evils 
are  taken  into  account.  Unless  this  could  be  proved, 
he  would  account  the  infliction  of  punishment  un- 
warrantable; and  for  taking  the  trouble  to  prove  it 
formally,  his  defence  is,  “ there  are  truths  which  it  is 


BENTHAM 


279 


necessary  to  prove,  not  for  their  own  sakes,  because 
they  are  acknowledged,  but  that  an  opening  may  be 
made  for  the  reception  of  other  truths  which  depend 
upon  them.  It  is  in  this  manner  we  provide  for  the 
reception  of  first  principles,  which,  once  received,  pre- 
pare the  way  for  admission  of  all  other  truths.”  * To 
which  may  be  added,  that  in  this  manner  also  do  we 
discipline  the  mind  for  practising  the  same  sort  of 
dissection  upon  questions  more  complicated  and  of 
more  doubtful  issue. 

It  is  a sound  maxim,  and  one  which  all  close 
thinkers  have  felt,  but  which  no  one  before  Bentham 
ever  so  consistently  applied,  that  error  lurks  in  gene- 
ralities : that  the  human  mind  is  not  capable  of  em- 
bracing a complex  whole,  until  it  has  surveyed  and 
catalogued  the  parts  of  which  that  whole  is  made  up ; 
that  abstractions  are  not  realities  'per  se , but  an  abridged 
mode  of  expressing  facts,  and  that  the  only  practical 
mode  of  dealing  with  them  is  to  trace  them  back  to 
the  facts  (whether  of  experience  or  of  consciousness)  of 
which  they  are  the  expression.  Proceeding  on  this 
principle,  Bentham  makes  short  work  with  the  ordinary 
modes  of  moral  and  political  reasoning.  These,  it 
appeared  to  him,  when  hunted  to  their  source,  for  the 
most  part  terminated  in  phrases.  In  politics,  liberty, 
social  order,  constitution,  law  of  nature,  social  com- 
pact, &c.,  were  the  catch-words:  ethics  had  its  anal- 
ogous ones.  Such  were  the  arguments  on  which  the 
gravest  questions  of  morality  and  policy  were  made  to 
turn ; not  reasons,  but  allusions  to  reasons ; sacra- 
mental expressions,  by  which  a summary  appeal  was 
made  to  some  general  sentiment  of  mankind,  or  to 
some  maxim  in  familiar  use,  which  might  be  true  or 
not,  but  the  limitations  of  which  no  one  had  ever 
critically  examined.  And  this  satisfied  other  people ; 
but  not  Bentham.  He  required  something  more  than 
opinion  as  a reason  for  opinion.  Whenever  he  found 
a phrase  used  as  an  argument  for  or  against  anything, 
he  insisted  upon  knowing  what  it  meant ; whether  it 
* Part  I,  pp.  1 61, 162,  of  the  collected  edition. 


280 


BENTHAM 


appealed  to  any  standard,  or  gave  intimation  of  any 
matter  of  fact  relevant  to  the  question ; and  if  he  could 
not  find  that  it  did  either,  he  treated  it  as  an  attempt 
on  the  part  of  the  disputant  to  impose  his  own  indi- 
vidual sentiment  on  other  people,  without  giving  them 
a reason  for  it ; a “ contrivance  for  avoiding  the  obli- 
gation of  appealing  to  any  external  standard,  and  for 
prevailing  upon  the  reader  to  accept  of  the  author’s 
sentiment  and  opinion  as  a reason,  and  that  a sufficient 
one,  for  itself.”  Bentham  shall  speak  for  himself  on 
this  subject : the  passage  is  from  his  first  systematic 
work,  Introduction  to  the  Principles  of  Morals  and 
Legislation , and  we  could  scarcely  quote  anything 
more  strongly  exemplifying  both  the  strength  and 
weakness  of  his  mode  of  philosophizing. 

“It  is  carious  enough  to  observe  the  variety  of  inventions 
men  have  hit  upon,  and  the  variety  of  phrases  they  have 
brought  forward,  in  order  to  conceal  from  the  world,  and,  if 
possible,  from  themselves,  this  very  general  and  therefore  very 
pardonable  self-sufficiency. 

“ 1.  One  man  says,  he  has  a thing  made  on  purpose  to  tell 
him  "what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong ; and  that  is  called  a 
‘ moral  sense  and  then  he  goes  to  wTork  at  his  ease,  and 
says,  such  a thing  is  right,  and  such  a thing  is  wrong — why? 
6 Because  my  moral  sense  tells  me  it  is.’ 

“ 2.  Another  man  comes  and  alters  the  phrase  : leaving  out 
moral,  and  putting  in  common  in  the  room  of  it.  He  then 
tells  you  that  his  common  sense  tells  him  what  is  right  and 
■wrong,  as  surely  as  she  other’s  moral  sense  did  : meaning  by 
common  sense  a sense  of  some  kind  or  other,  which,  he  says, 
is  possessed  by  all  mankind  : the  sense  of  those  whose  sense 
is  not  the  same  as  the  author’s  being  struck  out  as  not  worth 
taking.  This  contrivance  does  better  than  the  other ; for  a 
moral  sense  being  a new  thing,  a man  may  feel  about  him  a 
good  while  without  being  able  to  find  it  out : but  common 
sense  is  as  old  as  the  creation ; and  there  is  no  man  but  would 
be  ashamed  to  be  thought  not  to  have  as  much  of  it  as  his 
neighbours.  It  has  another  great  advantage  : by  appearing  to 
share  power,  it  lessens  envy ; for  when  a man  gets  up  upon 
this  ground,  in  order  to  anathematize  those  who  differ  from 
him,  it  is  not  by  a sic  volo  sicjubeo , but  by  a velitis  jubeatis . 

“ 3.  Another  man  comes,'  and  says  that  as  to  moral  sense 
indeed,  he  cannot  find  that  he  has  any  such  thing  : that,  how- 
ever, he  has  an  understanding , which  will  do  quite  as  well. 


BENTHAM 


281 


This  understanding,  he  says,  is  the  standard  of  right  and 
wrong  : it  tells  him  so  and  so.  All  good  and  wise  men  under- 
stand as  he  does : if  other  men’s  understandings  differ  in  any 
part  from  his,  so  much  the  worse  for  them  : it  is  a sure  sign 
they  are  either  defective  or  corrupt. 

u 4.  Another  man  says,  that  there  is  an  eternal  and  immu- 
table Rule  of  Right : that  that  rule  of  right  dictates  so  and 
so  ; and  then  he  begins  giving  you  his  sentiments  upon  any- 
thing that  comes  uppermost : and  these  sentiments  (you  are 
to  take  for  granted)  are  so  many  branches  of  the  eternal  rule 
of  right. 

“ 5.  Another  man,  or  perhaps  the  same  man  (it  is  no  matter), 
says  that  there  are  certain  practices  conformable,  and  others 
repugnant,  to  the  Fitness  of  Things  ; and  then  he  tells  you,  at 
his  leisure,  what  practices  are  conformable,  and  what  repug- 
nant : just  as  he  happens  to  like  a practice  or  dislike  it. 

“ 6.  A great  multitude  of  people  are  continually  talking  of 
the  Law  of  Nature ; and  then  they  go  on  giving  you  their 
sentiments  about  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong  : and  these 
sentiments,  you  are  to  understand,  are  so  many  chapters  and 
sections  of  the  Law  of  Nature. 

. “7.  Instead  of  the  phrase,  Law  of  Nature,  you  have  some- 
times Law  of  Reason,  Right  Reason,  Natural  Justice,  Natural 
Equity,  Good  Order.  Any  of  them  will  do  equally  well.  This 
latter  is  most  used  in  politics.  The  three  last  are  much  more 
tolerable  than  the  others,  because  they  do  not  very  explicitly 
claim  to  be  anything  more  than  phrases  : they  insist  but  feebly 
upon  the  being  looked  upon  as  so  many  positive  standards  of 
themselves,  and  seem  content  to  be  taken,  upon  occasion,  for 
phrases  expressive  of  the  conformity  of  the  thing  in  question 
to  the  proper  standard,  whatever  that  may  be.  On  most 
occasions,  however,  it  will  be  better  to  say  utility : utility  is 
clearer,  as  referring  more  explicitly  to  pain  and  pleasure. 

" 8.  We  have  one  philosopher,  wTho  says,  there  is  no  harm 
in  anything  in  the  world  but  in  telling  a lie ; and  that  if,  for 
example,  you  were  to  murder  your  own  father,  this  would 
only  be  a particular  way  of  saying,  he  was  not  your  father. 
Of  course  when  this  philosopher  sees  anything  that  he  does 
no t.  like,  he  says,  it  is  a particular  way  of  telling  a lie.  It  is 
saying,  that  the  act  ought  to  be  done,  or  may  be  done,  when, 
in  truth , it  ought  not  to  be  done. 

“ 9.  The  fairest  and  openest  of  them  all  is  that  sort  of  man 
who  speaks  out,  and  says,  I am  of  the  number  of  the  Elect : 
now  God  himself  takes  care  to  inform  the  Elect  what  is  right: 
and  that  with  so  good  effect,  that  let  them  strive  ever  so,  they 
cannot  help  not  only  knowing  it  but  practising  it.  If  there- 
fore a man  wants  to  know  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong,  he 
has  nothing  to,  do  but  come  to  me.” 


282 


BENTHAM 


Few  will  contend  that  this  is  a perfectly  fair  repre- 
sentation of  the  animus  of  those  who  employ  the 
various  phrases  so  amusingly  animadverted  on  ; but 
that  the  phrases  contain  no  argument,  save  what  is 
grounded  on  the  very  feelings  they  are  adduced  to 
justify,  is  a truth  which  Bentham  had  the  eminent 
merit  of  first  pointing  out. 

It  is  the  introduction  into  the  philosophy  of  human 
conduct,  of  this  method  of  detail — of  this  practice  of 
never  reasoning  about  wholes  till  they  have  been 
resolved  into  their  parts,  nor  about  abstractions  till 
they  have  been  translated  into  realities — that  consti- 
tutes the  originality  of  Bentham  in  philosophy,  and 
makes  him  the  great  reformer  of  the  moral  and  poli- 
tical branch  of  it.  To  what  he  terms  the  “ exhaustive 
method  of  classification,”  which  is  but  one  branch  of 
this  more  general  method,  he  himself  ascribes  every- 
thing original  in  the  systematic  and  elaborate  work 
from  which  we  have  quoted.  The  generalities  of  his 
philosophy  itself  have  little  or  no  novelty : to  ascribe 
any  to  the  doctrine  that  general  utility  is  the  founda- 
tion of  morality,  would  imply  great  ignorance  of  the 
history  of  philosophy,  of  general  literature,  and  of 
Bentham’s  own  writings.  He  derived  the  idea,  as  he 
says  himself,  from  Helvetius  ; and  it  was  the  doctrine 
no  less,  of  the  religious  philosophers  of  that  age, 
prior  to  Beid  and  Beattie.  We  never  saw  an  abler 
defence  of  the  doctrine  of  utility  than  in  a book 
written  in  refutation  of  Shaftesbury,  and  now  little 
read — Brown’s*  Essays  on  the  Characteristics , and 
in  Johnson’s  celebrated  review  of  Soame  Jenyns,  the 
same  doctrine  is  set  forth  as  that  both  of  the  author 
and  of  the  reviewer.  In  all  ages  of  philosophy  one 
of  its  schools  has  been  utilitarian — not  only  from  the 
time  of  Epicurus,  but  long  before.  It  was  by  mere 
accident  that  this  opinion  became  connected  in  Bentham 
with  his  peculiar  method.  The  utilitarian  philosophers 

* Author  of  another  book  which  made  no  little  sensation 
when  it  first  appeared,  An  Estimate  of  the  Manners  of  the 
Times . 


BENTHAM 


283 


antecedent  to  him  had  no  more  claims  to  the  method 
than  their  antagonists.  To  refer,  for  instance,  to  the 
Epicurean  philosophy,  according  to  the  most  complete 
view  we  have  of  the  moral  part  of  it,  by  the  most 
accomplished  scholar  of  antiquity,  Cicero  ; we  ask  any 
one  who  has  read  his  philosophical  writings,  the  De 
Finibus  for  instance,  whether  the  arguments  of  the 
Epicureans  do  not,  just  as  much  as  those  of  the  Stoics 
or  Platonists,  consist  of  mere  rhetorical  appeals  to 
common  notions,  to  eUdra  and  awe Ta  instead  of  re/c^pta, 
notions  picked  up  as  it  were  casually,  and  when  true 
at  all,  never  so  narrowly  looked  into  as  to  ascertain  in 
what  sense  and  under  what  limitations  they  are  true. 
The  application  of  a real  inductive  philosophy  to  the 
problems  of  ethics,  is  as  unknown  to  the  Epicurean 
moralists  as  to  any  of  the  other  schools  ; they  never 
take  a question  to  pieces,  and  join  issue  on  a definite 
point.  Bentham  certainly  did  not  learn  his  sifting 
and  anatomizing  method  from  them. 

This  method  Bentham  has  finally  installed  in 
philosophy;  has  made  it  henceforth  imperative  on 
philosophers  of  all  schools.  By  it  he  has  formed  the 
intellects  of  many  thinkers,  who  either  never  adopted, 
or  have  abandoned  many  of  his  peculiar  opinions. 
He  has  taught  the  method  to  men  of  the  most  opposite 
schools  to  his;  he  has  made  them  perceive ^ that  if 
they  do  not  test  their  doctrines  by  the  method  of 
detail,  their  adversaries  will.  He  has  thus,  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say,  for  the  first  time  introduced  precision 
of  thought  into  moral  and  political  philosophy.  Instead 
of  taking  up  their  opinions  by  intuition,  or  by  ratio- 
cination from  premises  adopted  on  a mere  rough  view, 
and  couched  in  language  so  vague  that  it  is  impossible 
to  say  exactly  whether  they  are  true  or  false,  philoso- 
phers are  now  forced  to  understand  one  another,  to 
break  down  the  generality  of  their  propositions,  and 
join  a precise  issue  in  every  dispute.  This  is  nothing 
less  than  a revolution  in  philosophy.  Its  effect  is 
gradually  becoming  evident  in  the  writings  of  English 
thinkers  of  every  variety  of  opinion,  and  will  be  felt 


284 


BENTHAM 


more  and  more  in  proportion  as  Bentham’s  writings 
are  diffused,  and  as  the  number  of  minds  to  whose 
formation  they  contribute  is  multiplied. 

It  will  naturally  be  presumed  that  of  the  fruits  of 
this  great  philosophical  improvement  some  portion  at 
least  will  have  been  reaped  by  its  author.  Armed 
with  such  a potent  instrument,  and  wielding  it  with 
such  singleness  of  aim  ; cultivating  the  field  of  practical 
philosophy  with  such  unwearied  and  such  consistent 
use  of  a method  right  in  itself,  and  not  adopted  by 
his  predecessors ; it  cannot  be  but  that  Bentham 
by  his  own  inquiries  must  have  accomplished  some- 
thing considerable.  And  so,  it  will  be  found,  he  has  ; 
something  not  only  considerable,  but  extraordinary ; 
though  but  little  compared  with  what  he  has  left 
undone,  and  far  short  of  what  his  sanguine  and  almost 
boyish  fancy  made  him  flatter  himself  that  he  had 
accomplished.  His  peculiar  method,  admirably  calcu- 
lated to  make  clear  thinkers,  and  sure  ones  to  the 
extent  of  their  materials,  has  not  equal  efficacy  for 
making  those  materials  complete.  It  is  a security  for 
accuracy,  but  not  for  comprehensiveness  ; or  rather, 
it  is  a security  for  one  sort  of  comprehensiveness,  but 
not  for  another. 

Bentham’s  method  of  laying  out  his  subject  is  admir- 
able as  a preservative  against  one  kind  of  narrow  and 
partial  views.  He  begins  by  placing  before  himself 
the  whole  of  the  field  of  inquiry  to  which  the  particular 
question  belongs,  and  divides  down  till  he  arrives  at 
the  thing  he  is  in  search  of ; and  thus  by  successively 
rejecting  all  which  is  not  the  thing,  he  gradually  works 
out  a definition  of  what  it  is.  This,  which  he  calls  the 
exhaustive  method,  is  as  old  as  philosophy  itself.  Plato 
owes  everything  to  it,  and  does  everything  by  it ; and 
the  use  made  of  it  by  that  great  man  in  his  Dialogues , 
Bacon,  in  one  of  those  pregnant  logical  hints  scattered 
through  his  writings,  and  so  much  neglected  by  most 
of  his  pretended  followers,  pronounces  to  be  the  nearest 
approach  to  a true  inductive  method  in  the  ancient 


BENTHAM 


285 


philosophy.  Bentham  was  probably  not  aware  that 
Plato  had  anticipated  him  in  the  process  to  which  he 
too  declared  that  he  owed  everything.  By  the  practice 
of  it,  his  speculations  are  rendered  eminently  system- 
atic and  consistent ; no  question,  with  him,  is  ever  an 
insulated  one ; he  sees  every  subject  in  connexion  with 
all  the  other  subjects  with  which  in  his  view  it  is 
related,  and  from  which  it  requires  to  be  distinguished ; 
and  as  all  that  he  knows,  in  the  least  degree  allied  to 
the  subject,  has  been  marshalled  in  an  orderly  manner 
before  him,  he  does  not,  like  people  who  use  a looser 
method,  forget  and  overlook  a thing  on  one  occasion 
to  remember  it  on  another.  Hence  there  is  probably 
no  philosopher  of  so  wide  a range,  in  whom  there  are 
so  few  inconsistencies.  If  any  of  the  truths  which 
he  did  not  see,  had  come  to  be  seen  by  him,  he  would 
have  remembered  it  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  and 
would  have  adjusted  his  whole  system  to  it.  And  this 
is  another  admirable  quality  which  he  has  impressed 
upon  the  best  of  the  minds  trained  in  his  habits  of 
thought : when  those  minds  open  to  admit  new  truths, 
they  digest  them  as  fast  as  they  receive  them. 

But  this  system,  excellent  for  keeping  before  the  mind 
of  the  thinker  all  that  he  knows,  does  not  make  him 
know  enough  ; it  does  not  make  a knowledge  of  some 
of  the  properties  of  a thing  suffice  for  the  whole  of  it, 
nor  render  a rooted  habit  of  surveying  a complex 
object  (though  ever  so  carefully)  in  only  one  of  its 
aspects,  tantamount  to  the  power  of  contemplating  it 
in  all.  To  give  this  last  power,  other  qualities  are  re- 
quired : whether  Bentham  possessed  those  other 
qualities  we  now  have  to  see. 

Bentham’s  mind,  as  we  have  already  said,  was 
eminently  synthetical.  He  begins  all  his  inquiries  by 
supposing  nothing  to  be  known  on  the  subject,  and  re- 
constructs all  philosophy  ab  initio , without  reference 
to  the  opinions  of  his  predecessors.  But  to  build  either 
a philosophy  or  anything  else,  there  must  be  materials. 
For  the  philosophy  of  matter,  the  materials  are  the 
properties  of  matter;  for  moral  and  political  philosophy, 


286 


BENTHAM 


the  properties  of  man,  and  of  man’s  position  in  the 
world.  The  knowledge  which  any  inquirer  possesses 
of  these  properties,  constitutes  a limit  beyond  which,  as 
a moralist  or  a political  philosopher,  whatever  be  his 
powers  of  mind,  he  cannot  reach.  Nobody’s  synthesis 
can  be  more  complete  than  his  analysis.  If  in  his 
survey  of  human  nature  and  life  he  has  left  any 
element  out,  then,  wheresoever  that  element  exerts 
any  influence,  his  conclusions  will  fail,  more  or  less,  in 
their  application.  If  he  has  left  out  many  elements, 
and  those  very  important,  his  labours  may  be  highly 
valuable  ; he  may  have  largely  contributed  to  that 
body  of  partial  truths  which,  when  completed  and  cor- 
rected by  one  another,  constitute  practical  truth  ; but 
the  applicability  of  his  system  to  practice  in  its  own 
proper  shape  will  be  of  an  exceedingly  limited  range. 

Human  nature  and  human  life  are  wide  subjects,  and 
whoever  would  embark  in  an  enterprise  requiring  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  them,  has  need  both  of  large 
stores  of  his  own,  and  of  all  aids  and  appliances  from 
elsewhere.  His  qualifications  for  success  will  be  pro- 
portional to  two  things  : the  degree  in  which  his  own 
nature  and  circumstances  furnish  him  with  a correct 
and  complete  picture  of  man’s  nature  and  circum- 
stances ; and  his  capacity  of  deriving  light  from  other 
minds. 

Bentham  failed  in  deriving  light  from  other  minds. 
His  writings  contain  few  traces  of  the  accurate  know- 
ledge of  any  schools  of  thinking  but  his  own ; and 
many  proofs  of  his  entire  conviction  that  they  could 
teach  him  nothing  worth  knowing.  For  some  of  the^ 
most  illustrious  of  previous  thinkers,  his  contempt  was 
unmeasured.  In  almost  the  only  passage  of  the 
Deontology  which,  from  its  style,  and  from  its  having 
before  appeared  in  print,  may  be  known  to  be  Ben- 
tham’s,  Socrates  and  Plato  are  spoken  of  in  terms  dis- 
tressing to  his  greatest  admirers  ; and  the  incapacity 
to  appreciate  such  men,  is  a fact  perfectly  in  unison 
with  the  general  habits  of  Bentham ’s  mind.  He  had 
a phrase,  expressive  of  the  view  he  took  of  all  moral 


BENTHAM 


287 


speculations  to  which  his  method  had  not  been  applied, 
or  (which  he  considered  as  the  same  thing)  not  founded 
on  a recognition  of  utility  as  the  moral  standard  ; this 
phrase  was  “ vague  generalities.”  Whatever  presented 
itself  to  him  in  such  a shape,  he  dismissed  as  unworthy 
of  notice,  or  dwelt  upon  only  to  denounce  as  absurd. 
He  did  not  heed,  or  rather  the  nature  of  his  mind  pre- 
vented it  from  occurring  to  him,  that  these  generalities 
contained  the  whole  unanalysed  experience  of  the 
human  race. 

Unless  it  can  be  asserted  that  mankind  did  not  know 
anything  until  logicians  taught  it  to  them — that  until 
the  last  hand  has  been  put  to  a moral  truth  by  giving 
it  a metaphysically  precise  expression,  all  the  previous 
rough-hewing  which  it  has  undergone  by  the  common 
intellect  at  the  suggestion  of  common  wants  and 
common  experience  is  to  go  for  nothing ; it  must  be 
allowed,  that  even  the  originality  which  can,  and  the 
courage  which  dares,  think  for  itself,  is  not  a more 
necessary  part  of  the  philosophical  character  than  a 
thoughtful  regard  for  previous  thinkers,  and  for  the 
collective  mind  of  the  human  race.  What  has  been 
the  opinion  of  mankind,  has  Jbeen  the  opinion  of  per- 
sons of  all  tempers  and  dispositions,  of  all  partialities 
and  prepossessions,  of  all  varieties  in  position,  in  educa- 
tion, in  opportunities  of  observation  and  inquiry.  No 
one  inquirer  is  all  this ; every  inquirer  is  either  young 
or  old,  rich  or  poor,  sickly  or  healthy,  married  or  un- 
married, meditative  or  active,  a poet  or  a logician,  an 
ancient  or  a modern,  a man  or  a woman;  and  if  a 
thinking  person,  has,  in  addition,  the  accidental  pecu- 
liarities of  his  individual  modes  of  thought.  Every 
circumstance  which  gives  a character  to  the  life  of  a 
human  being,  carries  with  it  its  peculiar  biases ; its 
peculiar  facilities  for  perceiving  some  things,  and  for 
missing  or  forgetting  others.  But,  from  points  of  view 
different  from  his,  different  things  are  perceptible  ; and 
none  are  more  likely  to  have  seen  what  he  does  not 
see,  than  those  who  do  not  see  what  he  sees.  The 
general  opinion  of  mankind  is  the  average  of  the  con- 


288 


BENTHAM 


elusions  of  all  minds,  stripped  indeed  of  their  choicest 
and  most  recondite  thoughts,  but  freed  from  their 
twists  and  partialities : a net  result,  in  which  every- 
body’s particular  point  of  view  is  represented,  nobody’s 
predominant.  The  collective  mind  does  not  penetrate 
below  the  surface,  but  it  sees  all  the  surface ; which 
profound  thinkers,  even  by  reason  of  their  profundity, 
often  fail  to  do  : their  intenser  view  of  a thing  in  some 
of  its  aspects  diverting  their  attention  from  others. 

The  hardiest  assertor,  therefore,  of  the  freedom  of 
private  judgment — the  keenest  detector  of  the  errors  of 
his  predecessors,  and  of  the  inaccuracies  of  current 
modes  of  thought — is  the  very  person  who  most  needs 
to  fortify  the  weak  side  of  his  own  intellect,  by  study 
of  the  opinions  of  mankind  in  all  ages  and  nations,  and 
of  the  speculations  by  philosophers  on  the  modes  of 
thought  most  opposite  to  his  own.  It  is  there  that  he 
will  find  the  experiences  denied  to  himself — the  re- 
mainder of  the  truth  of  which  he  sees  but  half — the 
truths,  of  which  the  errors  he  detects  are  commonly 
but  the  exaggerations.  If,  like  Bentham,  he  brings 
with  him  an  improved  instrument  of  investigation, 
the  greater  is  the  probability  that  he  will  find  ready 
prepared  a rich  abundance  of  rough  ore,  which  was 
merely  waiting  for  that  instrument.  A man  of  clear 
ideas  errs  grievously  if  he  imagines  that  whatever  is 
seen  confusedly  does  not  exist : it  belongs  to  him,  when 
he  meets  with  such  a thing,  to  dispel  the  mist,  and  fix 
the  outlines  of  the  vague  form  which  is  looming 
through  it. 

Bentham’s  contempt,  then,  of  all  other  schools  of 
thinkers  ; his  determination  to  create  a philosophy 
wholly  out  of  the  materials  furnished  by  his  own 
mind,  and  by  minds  like  his  own  ; was  his  first  dis- 
qualification as  a philosopher.  His  second,  was  the 
incompleteness  of  his  own  mind  as  a representative  of 
universal  human  nature.  In  many  of  the  most 
natural  and  strongest  feelings  of  human  nature  he 
had  no  sympathy ; from  many  of  its  graver  expe- 
riences he  was  altogether  cut  off ; and  the  faculty  by 


BENTHAM 


289 


which  one  mind  understands  a mind  different  from 
itself,  and  throws  itself  into  the  feelings  of  that  other 
mind,  was  denied  him  by  his  deficiency  of  Ima- 
gination. 

With  Imagination  in  the  popular  sense,  command 
of  imagery  and  metaphorical  expression,  Bentham 
was,  to  a certain  degree,  endowed.  For  want,  indeed, 
of  poetical  culture,  the  images  with  which  his  fancy 
supplied  him  were  seldom  beautiful,  but  they  were 
quaint  and  humorous,  or  bold,  forcible,  and  intense  : 
passages  might  be  quoted  from  him  both  of  playful 
irony,  and  of  declamatory  eloquence,  seldom  surpassed 
in  the  writings  of  philosophers.  The  Imagination  which 
he  had  not,  was  that  to  which  the  name  is  generally 
appropriated  by  the  best  writers  of  the  present  day ; 
that  which  enables  us,  by  a voluntary  effort,  to 
conceive  the  absent  as  if  it  were  present,  the  imagi- 
nary as  if  it  were  real,  and  to  clothe  it  in  the  feelings 
which,  if  it  were  indeed  real,  it  would  bring  along 
with  it.  This  is  the  power  by  which  one  human  being 
enters  into  the  mind  and  circumstances  of  another. 
This  power  constitutes  the  poet,  in  so  far  as  he  does 
anything  but  melodiously  utter  his  own  actual  feelings. 
It  constitutes  the  dramatist  entirely.  It  is  one  of  the 
constituents  of  the  historian  ; by  it  we  understand 
other  times ; by  it  Guizot  interprets  to  us  the  middle 
ages;  Nisard,  in  his  beautiful  Studies  on  the  later 
Latin  poets,  places  us  in  the  Rome  of  the  Csesars  ; 
Michelet  disengages  the  distinctive  characters  of  the 
different  races  and  generations  of  mankind  from  the 
facts  of  their  history.  Without  it  nobody  knows 
even  his  own  nature,  further  than  circumstances  have 
actually  tried  it  and  called  it  out ; nor  the  nature  of 
his  fellow-creatures,  beyond  such  generalizations  as  he 
may  have  been  enabled  to  make  from  his  observation 
of  their  outward  conduct. 

By  these  limits,  accordingly,  Bentham’s  knowledge 
of  human  nature  is  bounded.  It  is  wholly  empirical ; 
and  the  empiricism  of  one  who  has  had  little  expe- 
rience. He  had  neither  internal  experience  nor 

19 


290 


BENTHAM 


external;  the  quiet,  even  tenor  of  his  life,  and  his 
healthiness  of  mind,  conspired  to  exclude  him  from 
both.  He  never  knew  prosperity  and  adversity, 
passion  nor  satiety : he  never  had  even  the  expe- 
riences which  sickness  gives ; he  lived  from  child- 
hood to  the  age  of  eighty-five  in  boyish  health.  He 
knew  no  dejection,  no  heaviness  of  heart.  He  never 
felt  life  a sore  and  a weary  burthen.  He  was  a boy 
to  the  last.  Self-consciousness,  that  daemon  of  the 
men  of  genius  of  our  time,  from  Wordsworth  to  Byron, 
from  Goethe  to  Chateaubriand,  and  to  which  this  age 
owes  so  much  both  of  its  cheerful  and  its  mournful 
wisdom,  never  was  awakened  in  him.  How  much  of 
human  nature  slumbered  in  him  he  knew  not,  neither 
can  we  know.  He  had  never  been  made  alive  to  the 
unseen  influences  which  were  acting  on  himself,  nor 
consequently  on  his  fellow-creatures.  Other  ages  and 
other  nations  were  a blank  to  him  for  purposes  of 
instruction.  He  measured  them  but  by  one  standard  ; 
their  knowledge  of  facts,  and  their  capability  to  take 
correct  views  of  utility,  and  merge  all  other  objects  in 
it.  His  own  lot  was  cast  in  a generation  of  the 
leanest  and  barrenest  men  whom  England  had  yet 
produced,  and  he  was  an  old  man  when  a better  race 
came  in  with  the  present  century.  He  saw  accord- 
ingly in  man  little  but  what  the  vulgarest  eye  can  see ; 
recognized  no  diversities  of  character  but  such  as  he 
who  runs  may  read.  Knowing  so  little  of  human 
feelings,  he  knew  still  less  of  the  influences  by  which 
those  feelings  are  formed : all  the  more  subtle  work- 
ings both  of  the  mind  upon  itself,  and  of  external 
things  upon  the  mind,  escaped  him ; and  no  one, 
probably,  who,  in  a highly-instructed  age,  ever  at- 
tempted to  give  a rule  to  all  human  conduct,  set  out 
with  a more  limited  conception  either  of  the  agencies 
by  which  human  conduct  is , or  of  those  by  which  it 
should  be , influenced. 

This,  then,  is  our  idea  of  Bentham.  He  was  a man 
both  of  remarkable  endowments  for  philosophy,  and 
of  remarkable  deficiencies  for  it : fitted,  beyond  almost 


BENTHAM 


291 


any  man,  for  drawing  from  his  premises,  conclusions 
not  only  correct,  but  sufficiently  precise  and  specific 
to  be  practical : but  whose  general  conception  of 
human  nature  and  life,  furnished  him  with  an  un- 
usually slender  stock  of  premises.  It  is  obvious  what 
would  be  likely  to  be  achieved  by  such  a man ; what  a 
thinker,  thus  gifted  and  thus  disqualified,  could  do  in 
philosophy.  He  could,  with  close  and  accurate  logic, 
hunt  half-truths  to  their  consequences  and  practical 
applications,  on  a scale  both  of  greatness  and  of 
minuteness  not  previously  exemplified;  and  this  is 
the  character  which  posterity  will  probably  assign  to 
Bentham. 

We  express  our  sincere  and  well-considered  con- 
viction when  we  say,  that  there  is  hardly  anything 
positive  in  Bentham’s  philosophy  which  is  not  true  : 
that  when  his  practical  conclusions  are  erroneous, 
which  in  our  opinion  they  are  very  often,  it  is  not 
because  the  considerations  which  he  urges  are  not 
rational  and  valid  in  themselves,  but  because  some 
more  important  principle,  which  he  did  not  perceive, 
supersedes  those  considerations,  and  turns  the  scale. 
The  bad  part  of  his  writings  is  his  resolute  denial  of 
all  that  he  does  not  see,  of  all  truths  but  those  which 
he  recognises.  By  that  alone  has  he  exercised  any 
bad  influence  upon  his  age  ; by  that  he  has,  not  created 
a school  of  deniers,  for  this  is  an  ignorant  prejudice, 
but  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  school  which  exists 
always,  though  it  does  not  always  find  a great  man 
to  give  it  the  sanction  of  philosophy : thrown  the 
mantle  of  intellect  over  the  natural  tendency  of  men 
in  all  ages  to  deny  or  disparage  all  feelings  and 
mental  states  of  which  they  have  no  consciousness  in 
themselves. 

The  truths  which  are  not  Bentham’s,  which  his 
philosophy  takes  no  account  of,  are  many  and  impor- 
tant ; but  his  non-recognition  of  them  does  not  put 
them  out  of  existence  ; they  are  still  with  us,  and  it  is 
a comparatively  easy  task  that  is  reserved  for  us,  to 
harmonize  those  truths  with  his.  To  reject  his  half  of 

19—2 


292 


BENTHAM 


the  truth  because  he  overlooked  the  other  half,  would 
be  to  fall  into  his  error  without  having  his  excuse.  For 
our  own  part,  we  have  a large  tolerance  for  one- 
eyed  men,  provided  their  one  eye  is  a penetrating 
one  : if  they  saw  more,  they  probably  would  not  see  so 
keenly,  nor  so  eagerly  pursue  one  course  of  inquiry. 
Almost  all  rich  veins  of  original  and  striking  specula- 
tion have  been  opened  by  systematic  half -thinkers  : 
though  whether  these  new  thoughts  drive  out  others  as 
good,  or  are  peacefully  superadded  to  them,  depends 
on  whether  these  half-thinkers  are  or  are  not  followed 
in  the  same  track  by  complete  thinkers.  The  field  of 
man’s  nature  and  life  cannot  be  too  much  worked,  or 
in  too  many  directions ; until  every  clod  is  turned  up 
the  work  is  imperfect ; no  whole  truth  is  possible  but 
by  combining  the  points  of  view  of  all  the  fractional 
truths,  nor,  therefore,  until  it  has  been  fully  seen  what 
each  fractional  truth  can  do  by  itself. 

What  Bentham’s  fractional  truths  could  do,  there 
is  no  such  good  means  of  showing  as  by  a review  of 
his  philosophy : and  such  a review,  though  inevitably 
a most  brief  and  general  one,  it  is  now  necessary  to 
attempt. 

The  first  question  in  regard  to  any  man  of  specula- 
tion is,  what  is  his  theory  of  human  life?  In  the 
minds  of  many  philosophers,  whatever  theory  they 
have  of  this  sort  is  latent,  and  it  would  be  a revelation 
to  themselves  to  have  it  pointed  out  to  them  in  their 
writings  as  others  can  see  it,  unconsciously  moulding 
everything  to  its  own  likeness.  But  Bentham  always 
knew  his  own  premises,  and  made  his  reader  know 
them  : it  was  not  his  custom  to  leave  the  theoretic 
grounds  of  his  practical  conclusions  to  conjecture. 
Few  great  thinkers  have  afforded  the  means  of  assign- 
ing with  so  much  certainty  the  exact  conception  which 
they  had  formed  of  man  and  of  man’s  life. 

Man  is  conceived  by  Bentham  as  a being  susceptible 
of  pleasures  and  pains,  and  governed  in  all  his  conduct 
partly  by  the  different  modifications  of  self-interest, 


BENTHAM 


293 


and  the  passions  commonly  classed  as  selfish,  partly  by 
sympathies,  or  occasionally  antipathies,  towards  other 
beings.  And  here  Bentham’s  conceptions  of  human 
nature  stops.  He  does  not  exclude  religion ; the 
prospect  of  divine  rewards  and  punishments  he 
includes  under  the  head  of  “ self-regarding  interest,” 
and  the  devotional  feeling  under  that  of  sympathy 
with  God.  But  the  whole  of  the  impelling  or  restrain- 
ing principles,  whether  of  this  or  of  another  world, 
which  he  recognises,  are  either  self-love,  or  love  or 
hatred  towards  other  sentient  beings.  That  there 
might  be  no  doubt  of  what  he  thought  on  the  subject, 
he  has  not  left  us  to  the  general  evidence  of  his 
writings,  but  has  drawn  out  a “ Table  of  the  Springs  of 
Action,”  an  express  enumeration  and  classification  of 
human  motives,  with  their  various  names,  laudatory, 
vituperative,  and  neutral : and  this  table,  to  be  found 
in  Part  I of  his  collected  works,  we  recommend  to  the 
study  of  those  who  would  understand  his  philosophy. 

Man  is  never  recognised  by  him  as  a being  capable 
of  pursuing  spiritual  perfection  as  an  end  ; of  desiring, 
for  its  own  sake,  the  conformity  of  his  own  character 
to  his  standard  of  excellence,  without  hope  of  good  or 
fear  of  evil  from  other  source  than  his  own  inward 
consciousness.  Even  in  the  more  limited  form  of 
Conscience,  this  great  fact  in  human  nature  escapes 
him.  Nothing  is  more  curious  than  the  absence  of 
recognition  in  any  of  his  writings  of  the  existence  of 
conscience,  as  a thing  distinct  from  philanthropy,  from 
affection  for  God  or  man,  and  from  self-interest  in  this 
world  or  in  the  next.  There  is  a studied  abstinence 
from  any  of  the  phrases  which,  in  the  mouths  of  others, 
import  the  acknowledgment  of  such  a fact.*  If  we 
find  the  words  “ Conscience,”  “ Principle,”  “ Moral 

* In  a passage  in  the  last  volume  of  his  book  on  Evidence, 
and  possibly  in  one  or  two  other  places,  the  “love  of  justice  ” 
is  spoken  of  as  a feeling  inherent  in  almost  all  mankind.  It 
is  impossible,  without  explanations  now  unattainable,  to 
ascertain  what  sense  is  to  be  put  upon  casual  expressions  so. 
inconsistent  with  the  general  tenor  of  his  philosophy. 


294 


BENTHAM 


Kecfcitude,”  “ Moral  Duty,”  in  his  Table  of  the  Springs 
of  Action,  it  is  among  the  synonyms  of  the  “ love  of 
reputation  with  an  intimation  as  to  the  two  former 
phrases,  that  they  are  also  sometimes  synonymous 
with  the  religious  motive,  or  the  motive  of  sympathy. 
The  feeling  of  moral  approbation  or  disapprobation 
properly  so  called,  either  towards  ourselves  or  our 
fellow-creatures,  he  seems  unaware  of  the  existence 
of ; and  neither  the  word  self-respect , nor  the  idea  to 
which  that  word  is  appropriated,  occurs  even  once,  so 
far  as  our  recollection  serves  us,  in  his  whole  writings. 

Nor  is  it  only  the  moral  part  of  man’s  nature,  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  term — the  desire  of  perfection,  or  the 
feeling  of  an  approving  or  of  an  accusing  conscience — 
that  he  overlooks  ; he  but  faintly  recognises,  as  a fact 
in  human  nature,  the  pursuit  of  any  other  ideal  end 
for  its  own  sake.  The  sense  of  honour,  and  personal 
dignity — that  feeling  of  personal  exaltation  and  degrada- 
tion which  acts  independently  of  other  people’s  opinion, 
or  even  in  defiance  of  it ; the  love  of  beauty,  the 
passion  of  the  artist ; the  love  of  order,  of  congruity, 
of  consistency  in  all  things,  and  conformity  to  their 
end ; the  love  of  power,  not  in  the  limited  form  of 
power  over  other  human  beings,  but  abstract  power, 
the  power  of  making  our  volitions  effectual ; the  love 
of  action,  the  thirst  for  movement  and  activity,  a 
principle  scarcely  of  less  influence  in  human  life  than 
its  opposite,  the  love  of  ease  : — None  of  these  powerful 
constituents  of  human  nature  is  thought  worthy  of  a 
place  among  the  “Springs  of  Actions”;  and  though 
there  is  possibly  no  one  of  them  of  the  existence  of 
which  an  acknowledgment  might  not  be  found  in 
some  corner  of  Bentham’s  writings,  no  conclusions  are 
ever  founded  on  the  acknowledgment.  Man,  that  most 
complex  being,  is  a very  simple  one  in  his  eyes.  Even 
under  the  head  of  sympathy,  his  recognition  does  not 
extend  to  the  more  complex  forms  of  the  feeling — the 
love  of  loving,  the  need  of  a sympathizing  support,  or 
of  objects  of  admiration  and  reverence.  If  he  thought 
.at  all  of  any  of  the  deeper  feelings  of  human  nature,  it 


BENTHAM 


295 


was  but  as  idiosyncrasies  of  taste,  with  which  the 
moralist  no  more  than  the  legislator  had  any  concern, 
further  than  to  prohibit  such  as  were  mischievous 
among  the  actions  tc  which  they  might  chance  to  lead. 
To  say  either  that  man  should,  or  that  he  should  not, 
take  pleasure  in  one  thing,  displeasure  in  another, 
appeared  to  him  as  much  an  act  of  despotism  in  the 
moralist  as  in  the  political  ruler. 

It  would  be  most  unjust  to  Bentham  to  surmise 
(as  narrow-minded  and  passionate  adversaries  are  apt 
in  such  cases  to  do)  that  this  picture  of  human  nature 
was  copied  from  himself ; that  all  those  constituents 
of  humanity  which  he  rejected  from  his  table  of 
motives,  were  wanting  in  his  own  breast.  The  un- 
usual strength  of  his  early  feelings  of  virtue,  was,  as 
we  have  seen,  the  original  cause  of  all  his  speculations ; 
and  a noble  sense  of  morality,  and  especially  of  justice, 
guides  and  pervades  them  all.  But  having  been  early 
accustomed  to  keep  before  his  mind’s  eye  the  happi- 
ness of  mankind  (or  rather  of  the  whole  sentient 
world),  as  the  only  thing  desirable  in  itself,  or  which 
rendered  anything  else  desirable,  he  confounded  all 
disinterested  feelings  which  he  found  in  himself  with 
the  desire  of  general  happiness : just  as  some  religious 
writers,  who  loved  virtue  for  its  own  sake  as  much 
perhaps  as  men  could  do,  habitually  confounded  their 
love  of  virtue  with  their  fear  of  hell.  It  would  have 
required  greater  subtlety  than  Bentham  possessed  to 
distinguish  from  each  other  feelings  which,  from  long 
habit,  always  acted  in  the  same  direction  ; and  his 
want  of  imagination  prevented  him  from  reading  the 
distinction,  where  it  is  legible  enough,  in  the  hearts  of 
others. 

Accordingly,  he  has  not  been  followed  in  this  grand 
oversight  by  any  of  the  able  men  who,  from  the  extent 
of  their  intellectual  obligations  to  him,  have  been 
regarded  as  his  disciples.  They  may  have  followed 
him  in  his  doctrine  of  utility,  and  in  his  rejection  of 
a moral  sense  as  the  test  of  right  and  wrong:  but 
while  repudiating  it  as  such,  they  have,  with  Hartley, 


296 


BENTHAM 


acknowledged  it  as  a fact  in  human  nature  ; they  have 
endeavoured  to  account  for  it,  to  assign  its  laws  : nor 
are  they  justly  chargeable  either  with  undervaluing 
this  part  of  our  nature,  or  with  any  disposition  to 
throw  it  into  the  background  of  their  speculations.  If 
any  part  of  the  influence  of  this  cardinal  error  has 
extended  itself  to  them,  it  is  circuitously,  and  through 
the  effect  on  their  minds  of  other  parts  of  Bentham’s 
doctrines. 

Sympathy,  the  only  disinterested  motive  which 
Bentham  recognised,  he  felt  the  inadequacy  of,  except 
in  certain  limited  cases,  as  a security  for  virtuous 
action.  Personal  affection,  he  well  knew,  is  as  liable 
to  operate  to  the  injury  of  third  parties,  and  requires 
as  much  to  be  kept  under  government,  as  any  other 
feeling  whatever : and  general  philanthropy,  con- 
sidered as  a motive  influencing  mankind  in  general, 
he  estimated  at  its  true  value  when  divorced  from 
the  feeling  of  duty — as  the  very  weakest  and  most 
unsteady  of  all  feelings.  There  remained,  as  a motive 
by  which  mankind  are  influenced,  and  by  which  they 
may  be  guided  to  their  good,  only  personal  interest. 
Accordingly,  Bentham’s  idea  of  the  world  is  that  of 
a collection  of  persons  pursuing  each  his  separate 
interest  or  pleasure,  and  the  prevention  of  whom 
from  jostling  one  another  more  than  is  unavoidable, 
may  be  attempted  by  hopes  and  fears  derived  from 
three  sources — the  law,  religion,  and  public  opinion. 
To  these  three  powers,  considered  as  binding  human 
conduct,  he  gave  the  name  of  sanctions  : the  political 
sanction,  operating  by  the  rewards  and  penalties  of 
the  law ; the  religious  sanction,  by  those  expected  from 
the  Kuler  of  the  Universe ; and  the  popular , which 
he  characteristically  calls  also  the  moral  sanction, 
operating  through  the  pains  and  pleasures  arising  from 
the  favour  or  disfavour  of  our  fellow-creatures. 

Such  is  Bentham’s  theory  of  the  world.  And  now, 
in  a spirit  neither  of  apology  nor  of  censure,  but  of 
calm  appreciation,  we  are  to  inquire  how  far  this  view 
of  human  nature  and  life  will  carry  any  one : — how 


BENTHAM 


297 


much  it  will  accomplish  in  morals,  and  how  much  in 
political  and  social  philosophy : what  it  will  do  for  the 
individual,  and  what  for  society. 

It  will  do  nothing  for  the  conduct  of  the  individual, 
beyond  prescribing  some  of  the  more  obvious  dic- 
tates of  worldly  prudence,  and  outward  probity  and 
beneficence.  There  is  no  need  to  expatiate  on  the 
deficiencies  of  a system  of  ethics  which  does  not 
pretend  to  aid  individuals  in  the  formation  of  their 
own  character  ; which  recognizes  no  such  wish  as  that 
of  self -culture,  we  may  even  say  no  such  power,  as 
existing  in  human  nature ; and  if  it  did  recognize,  could 
furnish  little  assistance  to  that  great  duty,  because  it 
overlooks  the  existence  of  about  half  of  the  whole 
number  of  mental  feelings  which  human  beings  are 
capable  of,  including  all  those  of  which  the  direct 
objects  are  states  of  their  own  mind. 

Morality  consists  of  two  parts.  One  of  these  is 
self-education ; the  training,  by  the  human  being 
himself,  of  his  affections  and  will.  That  department 
is  a blank  in  Bentham’s  system.  The  other  and 
co-equal  part,  the  regulation  of  his  outward  actions, 
must  be  altogether  halting  and  imperfect  without  the 
first : for  how  can  we  judge  in  what  manner  many  an 
action  will  affect  even  the  worldly  interests  of  our- 
selves or  others,  unless  we  take  in,  as  part  of  the 
question,  its  influence  on  the  regulation  of  our,  or 
their,  affections  and  desires  ? A moralist  on  Bentham’s 
principles  may  get  as  far  as  this,  that  he  ought  not  to 
slay,  burn,  or  steal ; but  what  will  be  his  qualifications 
for  regulating  the  nicer  shades  of  human  behaviour, 
or  for  laying  down  even  the  greater  moralities  as  to 
those  facts  in  human  life  which  are  liable  to  influence 
the  depths  of  the  character  quite  independently  of 
any  influence  on  worldly  circumstances — such,  for 
instance,  as  the  sexual  relations,  or  those  of  family 
in  general,  or  any  other  social  and  sympathetic  con- 
nexions of  an  intimate  kind  ? The  moralities  of  these 
questions  depend  essentially  on  considerations  which 
Bentham  never  so  much  as  took  into  the  account ; and 


298 


BENTHAM 


when  he  happened  to  be  in  the  right,  it  was  always, 
and  necessarily,  on  wrong  or  insufficient  grounds. 

It  is  fortunate  for  the  world  that  Bentham’s  taste 
lay  rather  in  the  direction  of  jurisprudential  than  of 
properly  ethical  inquiry.  Nothing  expressly  of  the 
latter  kind  has  been  published  under  his  name, 
except  the  Deontology — a book  scarcely  ever,  in  our 
experience,  alluded  to  by  any  admirer  of  Bentham 
without  deep  regret  that  it  ever  saw  the  light.  We 
did  not  expect  from  Bentham  correct  systematic  views 
of  ethics,  or  a sound  treatment  of  any  question  the 
moralities  of  which  require  a profound  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart ; but  we  did  anticipate  that  the 
greater  moral  questions  would  have  been  boldly 
plunged  into,  and  at  least  a searching  criticism  pro- 
duced of  the  received  opinions  ; we  did  not  expect 
that  the  petite  morale  almost  alone  would  have  been 
treated,  and  that  with  the  most  pedantic  minuteness, 
and  on  the  quid  pro  quo  principles  which  regulate 
trade.  The  book  has  not  even  the  value  which  would 
belong  to  an  authentic  exhibition  of  the  legitimate 
consequences  of  an  erroneous  line  of  thought ; for  the 
style  proves  it  to  have  been  so  entirely  rewritten, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  tell  how  much  or  how  little  of 
it  is  Bentham’s.  The  collected  edition,  now  in  pro- 
gress, will  not,  it  is  said,  include  Bentham’s  religious 
writings ; these,  although  we  think  most  of  them  of 
exceedingly  small  value,  are  at  least  his,  and  the  world 
has  a right  to  whatever  light  they  throw  upon  the 
constitution  of  his  mind.  But  the  omission  of  the 
Deontology  would  be  an  act  of  editorial  discretion 
wrhich  we  should  deem  entirely  justifiable. 

If  Bentham’s  theory  of  life  can  do  so  little  for  the 
individual,  what  can  it  do  for  society  ? 

It  will  enable  a society  which  has  attained  a certain 
state  of  spiritual  development,  and  the  maintenance  of 
which  in  that  state  is  otherwise  provided  for,  to  pre- 
scribe the  rules  by  which  it  may  protect  its  material 
interests.  It  will  do  nothing  (except  sometimes  as  an 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  a higher  doctrine)  for  the 


BENTHAM 


299 


spiritual  interests  of  society ; nor  does  it  suffice  of  it- 
self even  for  the  material  interests.  That  which  alone 
causes  any  material  interests  to  exist,  which  alone 
enables  any  body  of  human  beings  to  exist  as  a society, 
is  national  character : that  it  is,  which  causes  one 
nation  to  succeed  in  what  it  attempts,  another  to  fail  ; 
one  nation  to  understand  and  aspire  to  elevated  things, 
another  to  grovel  in  mean  ones  ; which  makes  the 
greatness  of  one  nation  lasting,  and  dooms  another  to 
early  and  rapid  decay.  The  true  teacher  of  the  fitting 
social  arrangements  for  England,  France,  or  America, 
is  the  one  who  can  point  out  how  the  English,  French, 
or  American  character  can  be  improved,  and  how  it 
has  been  made  what  it  is.  A philosophy  of  laws  and 
institutions,  not  founded  on  a philosophy  of  national 
character,  is  an  absurdity.  But  what  could  Bentham’s 
opinion  be  worth  on  national  character  ? How  could 
he,  whose  mind  contained  so  few  and  so  poor  types  of 
individual  character,  rise  to  that  higher  generalization  ? 
All  he  can  do  is  but  to  indicate  means  by  which,  in  any 
given  state  of  the  national  mind,  the  material  interests 
of  society  can  be  protected ; saving  the  question,  of 
which  others  must  judge,  whether  the  use  of  those 
means  would  have,  on  the  national  character,  any 
injurious  influence. 

We  have  arrived,  then,  at  a sort  of  estimate  of  what 
a philosophy  like  Bentham’s  can  do.  It  can  teach  the 
means  of  organizing  and  regulating  the  merely  business 
part  of  the  social  arrangements.  Whatever  can  be 
understood  or  whatever  done  without  reference  to 
moral  influences,  his  philosophy  is  equal  to ; where 
those  influences  require  to  be  taken  into  account,  it  is 
at  fault.  He  committed  the  mistake  of  supposing  that 
the  business  part  of  human  affairs  was  the  whole  of 
them  ; all  at  least  that  the  legislator  and  the  moralist 
had  to  do  with.  Not  that  he  disregarded  moral  in- 
fluences when  he  perceived  them  ; but  his  want  of 
imagination,  small  experience  of  human  feelings,  and 
ignorance  of  the  filiation  and  connexion  of  feelings  with 
one  another,  made  this  rarely  the  case. 


300 


BENTHAM 


The  business  part  is  accordingly  the  only  province  of 
human  affairs  which  Bentham  has  cultivated  with  any 
success  ; into  which  he  has  introduced  any  considerable 
number  of  comprehensive  and  luminous  practical  prin- 
ciples. That  is  the  field  of  his  greatness ; and  there  he 
is  indeed  great.  He  has  swept  away  the  accumulated 
cobwebs  of  centuries — he  has  untied  knots  which  the 
efforts  of  the  ablest  thinkers,  age  after  age,  had  only 
drawn  tighter ; and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  of  him 
that  over  a great  part  of  the  field  he  was  the  first  to 
shed  the  light  of  reason. 

We  turn  with  pleasure  from  what  Bentham  could 
not  do,  to  what  he  did.  It  is  an  ungracious  task  to  call 
a great  benefactor  of  mankind  to  account  for  not  being 
a greater — to  insist  upon  the  errors  of  a man  who  has 
originated  more  new  truths,  has  given  to  the  world 
more  sound  practical  lessons,  than  it  ever  received, 
except  in  a few  glorious  instances,  from  any  other 
individual.  The  unpleasing  part  of  our  work  is  ended. 
We  are  now  to  show  the  greatness  of  the  man ; the 
grasp  which  his  intellect  took  of  the  subjects  with 
which  it  was  fitted  to  deal ; the  giant’s  task  which  was 
before  him,  and  the  hero’s  courage  and  strength  with 
which  he  achieved  it.  Nor  let  that  which  he  did  be 
deemed  of  small  account  because  its  promise  was 
limited  : man  has  but  the  choice  to  go  a little  way  in 
many  paths,  or  a great  way  in  only  one.  The  field  of 
Bentham’s  labours  was  like  the  space  between  two 
parallel  lines ; narrow  to  excess  in  one  direction,  in 
another  it  reached  to  infinity. 

Bentham’s  speculations,  as  we  are  already  aware, 
began  with  law ; and  in  that  department  he  accom- 
plished his  greatest  triumphs.  He  found  the  philosophy 
of  law  a chaos,  he  left  it  a science  : he  found  the  prac- 
tice of  the  law  an  Augean  stable,  he  turned  the  river 
into  it  which  is  mining  and  sweeping  away  mound  after 
mound  of  its  rubbish. 

Without  joining  in  the  exaggerated  invectives  against 
lawyers,  which  Bentham  sometimes  permitted  to  him- 


BENTHAM 


801 


self,  or  making  one  portion  of  society  alone  accountable 
for  the  fault  of  all,  we  may  say  that  circumstances  had 
made  English  lawyers  in  a peculiar  degree  liable  to  the 
reproach  of  Voltaire,  who  defines  lawyers  the  “ con- 
servators of  ancient  barbarous  usages.”  The  basis  of 
the  English  law  was,  and  still  is,  the  feudal  system. 
That  system,  like  all  those  which  existed  as  custom 
before  they  were  established  as  law,,  possessed  a certain 
degree  of  suitableness  to  the  wants  of  the  society  among 
whom  it  grew  up — that  is  to  say,  of  a tribe  of  rude 
soldiers,  holding  a conquered  people  in  subjection,  and 
dividing  its  spoils  among  themselves.  Advancing 
civilization  had,  however,  converted  this  armed 
encampment  of  barbarous  warriors  in  the  midst 
of  enemies  reduced  to  slavery,  into  an  industrious, 
commercial,  rich,  and  free  people.  The  laws  which 
were  suitable  to  the  first  of  these  states  of  society, 
could  have  no  manner  of  relation  to  the  circumstances 
of  the  second ; which  could  not  even  have  come  into 
existence  unless  something  had  been  done  to  adapt 
those  laws  to  it.  But  the  adaptation  was  not  the 
result  of  thought  and  design;  it  arose  not  from  any 
comprehensive  consideration  of  the  new  state  of 
society  and  its  exigencies.  What  was  done,  was  done 
by  a struggle  of  centuries  between  the  old  barbarism 
and  the  new  civilization ; between  the  feudal  aristoc- 
racy of  conquerors,  holding  fast  to  the  rude  system 
they  had  established,  and  the  conquered  effecting  their 
emancipation.  The  last  was  the  growing  power,  but 
was  never  strong  enough  to  break  its  bonds,  though 
ever  and  anon  some  weak  point  gave  way.  Hence  the 
law  came  to  be  like  the  costume  of  a full-grown  man 
who  had  never  put  off  the  clothes  made  for  him  when 
he  first  went  to  school.  Band  after  band  had  burst, 
and,  as  the  rent  widened,  then,  without  removing  any- 
thing except  what  might  drop  off  of  itself,  the  hole 
was  darned,  or  patches  of  fresh  law  were  brought  from 
the  nearest  shop  and  stuck  on.  Hence  all  ages  of 
English  history  have  given  one  another  rendezvous  in 
English  law  ; their  several  products  may  be  seen  all 


302 


BENTHAM 


together,  not  interfused,  but  heaped  one  upon  another, 
as  many  different  ages  of  the  earth  may  be  read  in 
some  perpendicular  section  of  its  surface — the  deposits 
of  each  successive  period  not  substituted  but  superim- 
posed on  those  of  the  preceding.  And  in  the  world  of 
law  no  less  than  in  the  physical  world,  every  commo- 
tion and  conflict  of  the  elements  has  left  its  mark 
behind  in  some  break  or  irregularity  of  the  strata  : 
every  struggle  which  ever  rent  the  bosom  of  society  is 
apparent  in  the  disjointed  condition  of  the  part  of  the 
field  of  law  which  covers  the  spot : nay,  the  very  traps 
and  pitfalls  which  one  contending  party  set  for  another 
are  still  standing,  and  the  teeth  not  of  hyenas  only,  but 
of  foxes  and  all  cunning  animals,  are  imprinted  on  the 
curious  remains  found  in  these  antediluvian  caves. 

In  the  English  law,  as  in  the  Eoman  before  it,  the 
adaptations  of  barbarous  laws  to  the  growth  of  civilized 
society  were  made  chiefly  by  stealth.  They  were 
generally  made  by  the  courts  of  justice,  who  could  not 
help  reading  the  new  wants  of  mankind  in  the  cases 
between  man  and  man  which  came  before  them ; but 
who,  having  no  authority  to  make  new  laws  for  those 
new  wants,  were  obliged  to  do  the  work  covertly,  and 
evade  the  jealousy  and  opposition  of  an  ignorant,  pre- 
judiced, and  for  the  most  part  brutal  and  tyrannical 
legislature.  Some  of  the  most  necessary  of  these 
improvements,  such  as  the  giving  force  of  law  to 
trusts,  and  the  breaking  up  of  entails,  were  effected 
in  actual  opposition  to  the  strongly- declared  will  of 
Parliament,  whose  clumsy  hands,  no  match  for  the 
astuteness  of  judges,  could  not,  after  repeated  trials, 
manage  to  make  any  law  which  the  judges  could  not 
find  a trick  for  rendering  inoperative.  The  whole 
history  of  the  contest  about  trusts  may  still  be  read 
in  the  words  of  a conveyance,  as  could  the  contest 
about  entails,  till  the  abolition  of  fine  and  recovery  by 
a bill  of  the  present  Attorney- General ; but  dearly  did 
the  client  pay  for  the  cabinet  of  historical  curiosities 
which  he  was  obliged  to  purchase  every  time  that 
he  made  a settlement  of  his  estate.  The  result  of 


BENTHAM 


303 


this  mode  of  improving  social  institutions  was,  that 
whatever  new  things  were  done  had  to  be  done  in 
consistency  with  old  forms  and  names ; and  the  laws 
were  improved  with  much  the  same  effect  as  if,  in  the 
improvement  of  agriculture,  the  plough  could  only  have 
been  introduced  by  making  it  look  like  a spade  ; or  as  if, 
when  the  primeval  practice  of  ploughing  by  the  horse’s 
tail  gave  way  to  the  innovation  of  harness,  the  tail,  for 
form’s  sake,  had  still  remained  attached  to  the  plough. 

When  the  conflicts  were  over,  and  the  mixed  mass 
settled  down  into  something  like  a fixed  state,  and 
that  state  a very  profitable  and  therefore  a very 
agreeable  one  to  lawyers,  they,  following  the  natural 
tendency  of  the  human  mind,  began  to  theorise  upon 
it,  and,  in  obedience  to  necessity,  had  to  digest  it  and 
give  it  a systematic  form.  It  was  from  this  thing 
of  shreds  and  patches,  in  which  the  only  part  that 
approached  to  order  or  system  was  the  early  bar- 
barous part,  already  more  than  half  superseded,  that 
English  lawyers  had  to  construct,  by  induction  and 
abstraction,  their  philosophy  of  law  ; and  without  the 
logical  habits  and  general  intellectual  cultivation  which 
the  lawyers  of  the  Roman  empire  brought  to  a similar 
task.  Bentham  found  the  philosophy  of  law  what 
English  practising  lawyers  had  made  it ; a jumble,  in 
which  real  and  personal  property,  law  and  equity , 
felony , premunire , misprision , and  misdemeanour , 
words  without  a vestige  of  meaning  when  detached 
from  the  history  of  English  institutions — mere  tide- 
marks  to  point  out  the  line  which  the  sea  and  the 
shore,  in  their  secular  struggles,  had  adjusted  as  their 
mutual  boundary — all  passed  for  distinctions  inherent 
in  the  nature  of  things  ; in  which  every  absurdity, 
every  lucrative  abuse,  had  a reason  found  for  it — a 
reason  which  only  now  and  then  even  pretended  to  be 
drawn  from  expediency;  most  commonly  a technical 
reason,  one  of  mere  form,  derived  from  the  old  bar- 
barous system.  While  the  theory  of  the  law  was  in 
this  state,  to  describe  what  the  practice  of  it  was  would 
require  the  pen  of  a Swift,  or  of  Bentham  himself. 


304 


BENTHAM 


The  whole  progress  of  a suit  at  law  seemed  like  a series 
of  contrivances  for  lawyers’  profit,  in  which  the  suitors 
were  regarded  as  the  prey ; and  if  the  poor  were  not 
the  helpless  victims  of  every  Sir  Giles  Overreach  who 
could  pay  the  price,  they  might  thank  opinion  and 
manners  for  it,  not  the  law. 

It  may  be  fancied  by  some  people  that  Bentham 
did  an  easy  thing  in  merely  calling  all  this  absurd, 
and  proving  it  to  be  so.  But  he  began  the  contest  a 
young  man,  and  he  had  grown  old  before  he  had  any 
followers.  History  will  one  day  refuse  to  give  credit 
to  the  intensity  of  the  superstition  which,  till  very 
lately,  protected  this  mischievous  mess  from  examina- 
tion or  doubt — passed  off  the  charming  representations 
of  Blackstone  for  a just  estimate  of  the  English  law, 
and  proclaimed  the  shame  of  human  reason  to  be  the 
perfection  of  it.  Glory  to  Bentham  that  he  has  dealt 
to  this  superstition  its  deathblow — that  he  has  been 
the  Hercules  of  this  hydra,  the  St.  George  of  this 
pestilent  dragon  ! The  honour  is  all  his — nothing  but 
his  peculiar  qualities  could  have  done  it.  There  were 
wanted  his  indefatigable  perseverance,  his  firm  self- 
reliance,  needing  no  support  from  other  men’s  opinion  ; 
his  intensely  practical  turn  of  mind,  his  synthetical 
habits — above  all,  his  peculiar  method.  Metaphysicians, 
armed  with  vague  genearlities,  had  often  tried  their 
hands  at  the  subject,  and  left  it  no  more  advanced 
than  they  found  it.  Law  is  a matter  of  business  ; 
means  and  ends  are  the  things  to  be  considered  in  it, 
not  abstractions : vagueness  was  not  to  be  met  bv 
vagueness,  but  by  definiteness  and  precision : details 
were  not  to  be  encountered  with  generalities,  but  with 
details.  Nor  could  any  progress  be  made,  on  such  a 
subject,  by  merely  showing  that  existing  things  were 
bad ; it  was  necessary  also  to  show  how  they  might  be 
made  better.  No  great  man  whom  we  read  of  was 
qualified  to  do  this  thing  except  Bentham.  He  has 
done  it,  once  and  for  ever. 

Into  the  particulars  of  what  Bentham  has  done  we 
cannot  enter : many  hundred  pages  would  be  required 


BENTHAM 


305 


to  give  a tolerable  abstract  of  it.  To  sum  up  our 
estimate  under  a few  heads.  First : he  has  expelled 
mysticism  from  the  philosophy  of  law,  and  set  the 
example  of  viewing  laws  in  a practical  light,  as  means 
to  certain  definite  and  precise  ends.  Secondly : he 
has  cleared  up  the  confusion  and  vagueness  attaching 
to  the  idea  of  law  in  general,  to  the  idea  of  a body  of 
laws,  and  all  the  general  ideas  therein  involved. 
Thirdly  : he  demonstrated  the  necessity  and  practi- 
cability of  codification , or  the  conversion  of  all  law 
into  a written  and  systematically  arranged  code  : not 
like  the  Code  Napoleon,  a code  without  a single  defini- 
tion, requiring  a constant  reference  to  anterior  prece- 
dent for  the  meaning  of  its  technical  terms ; but  one 
containing  within  itself  all  that  is  necessary  for  its  own 
interpretation,  together  with  a perpetual  provision  for 
its  own  emendation  and  improvement.  He  has  shown 
of  what  parts  such  a code  would  consist ; the  relation 
of  those  parts  to  one  another  ; and  by  his  distinctions 
and  classifications  has  done  very  much  towards  show- 
ing what  should  be,  or  might  be,  its  nomenclature  and 
arrangement.  What  he  has  left  undone,  he  has  made 
it  comparatively  easy  for  others  to  do.  Fourthly  : he 
has  taken  a systematic  view*  of  the  exigencies  of 
society  for  which  the  civil  code  is  intended  to  provide, 
and  of  the  principles  of  human  nature  by  which  its 
provisions  are  to  be  tested  : and  this  view,  defective  (as 
we  have  already  intimated)  wherever  spiritual  interests 
require  to  be  taken  into  account,  is  excellent  for  that 
large  portion  of  the  laws  of  any  country  which  are 
designed  for  the  protection  of  material  interests. 
Fifthly : (to  say  nothing  of  the  subject  of  punishment, 
for  which  something  considerable  had  been  done 
before)  he  found  the  philosophy  of  judicial  procedure, 
including  that  of  judicial  establishments  and  of  evi- 
dence, in  a more  wretched  state  than  even  any  other 
part  of  the  philosophy  of  law ; he  carried  it  at  once 
almost  to  perfection.  He  left  it  with  every  one  of  its 

* See  the  Principles  of  Civil  Law , contained  in  Part  II.  of 
his  collected  works. 


20 


806 


BENTHAM 


principles  established,  and  little  remaining  to  be  done 
even  in  the  suggestion  of  practical  arrangements. 

These  assertions  in  behalf  of  Bentham  may  be  left, 
without  fear  for  the  result,  in  the  hands  of  those  who 
are  competent  to  judge  of  them.  There  are  now  even 
in  the  highest  seats  of  justice,  men  to  whom  the  claims 
made  for  him  will  not  appear  extravagant.  Principle 
after  principle  of  those  propounded  by  him  is  more- 
over making  its  way  by  infiltration  into  the  under- 
standings most  shut  against  his  influence,  and  driving 
nonsense  and  prejudice  from  one  corner  of  them  to 
another.  The  reform  of  the  laws  of  any  country 
according  to  his  principles,  can  only  be  gradual,  and 
may  be  long  ere  it  is  accomplished  ; but  the  work  is  in 
progress,  and  both  parliament  and  the  judges  are  every 
year  doing  something,  and  often  something  not  incon- 
siderable, towards  the  forwarding  of  it. 

It  seems  proper  here  to  take  notice  of  an  accusation 
sometimes  made  both  against  Bentham  and  against  the 
principle  of  codification — as  if  they  required  one  uniform 
suit  of  ready-made  laws  for  all  times  and  all  states  of 
society.  The  doctrine  of  codification,  as  the  word 
imports,  relates  to  the  form  only  of  the  laws,  not  their 
substance ; it  does  not  concern  itself  with  what  the 
laws  should  be,  but  declares  that  whatever  they  are, 
they  ought  to  be  systematically  arranged,  and  fixed 
down  to  a determinate  form  of  words.  To  the  accusa- 
tion, so  far  as  it  affects  Bentham,  one  of  the  essays  in 
the  collection  of  his  works  (then  for  the  first  time 
published  in  English)  is  a complete  answer  : that  “ On 
the  Influence  of  Time  and  Place  in  Matters  of  Legisla- 
tion.” It  may  there  be  seen  that  the  different  exigen- 
cies of  different  nations  with  respect  to  law,  occupied 
his  attention  as  systematically  as  any  other  portion  of 
the  wants  which  render  laws  necessary : with  the 
limitations,  it  is  true,  which  were  set  to  all  his  specula- 
tions by  the  imperfections  of  his  theory  of  human 
nature.  For,  taking,  as  we  have  seen,  next  to  no 
account  of  national  character  and  the  causes  which 
form  and  maintain  it,  he  was  precluded  from  con- 


BENTHAM 


807 


sidering,  except  to  a very  limited  extent,  the  laws  of  a 
country  as  an  instrument  of  national  culture  : one  of 
their  most  important  aspects,  and  in  which  they  must 
of  course  vary  according  to  the  degree  and  kind  of 
'culture  already  attained  ; as  a tutor  gives  his  pupil 
different  lessons  according  to  the  progress  already 
made  in  his  education.  The  same  laws  would  not 
have  suited  our  wild  ancestors,  accustomed  to  rude 
independence,  and  a people  of  Asiatics  bowed  down  by 
military  despotism  : the  slave  needs  to  be  trained  to 
govern  himself,  the  savage  to  submit  to  the  government 
of  others.  The  same  laws  will  not  suit  the  English, 
who  distrust  everything  which  emanates  from  general 
principles,  and  the  French,  who  distrust  whatever  does 
not  so  emanate.  Very  different  institutions  are  needed 
to  train  to  the  perfection  of  their  nature,  or  to  consti- 
tute into  a united  nation  and  social  polity,  an  essentially 
subjective  people  like  the  Germans,  and  an  essentially 
objective  people  like  those  of  Northern  and  Central 
Italy;  the  one  affectionate  and  dreamy,  the  other 
passionate  and  worldly  ; the  one  trustful  and  loyal, 
the  other  calculating  and  suspicious ; the  one  not 
practical  enough,  the  other  overmuch ; the  one  wanting 
individuality,  the  other  fellow-feeling ; the  one  failing 
for  want  of  exacting  enough  for  itself,  the  other  for 
want  of  conceding  enough  to  others.  Bentham  was 
little  accustomed  to  look  at  institutions  in  their  relation 
to  these  topics.  The  effects  of  this  oversight  must  of 
course  be  perceptible  throughout  his  speculations,  but 
we  do  not  think  the  errors  into  which  it  led  him  very 
material  in  the  greater  part  of  civil  and  penal  law : it 
is  in  the  department  of  constitutional  legislation  that 
they  were  fundamental. 

The  Benthamic  theory  of  government  has  made  so 
much  noise  in  the  world  of  late  years,  it  has  held  such 
a conspicuous  place  among  Radical  philosophies,  and 
Radical  modes  of  thinking  have  participated  so  much 
more  largely  than  any  others  in  its  spirit,  that  many 
worthy  persons  imagine  there  is  no  other  Radical 
philosophy  extant.  Leaving  such  people  to  discover 

20—2 


308 


BENTHAM 


their  mistake  as  they  may,  we  shall  expend  a few 
words  in  attempting  to  discriminate  between  the  truth 
and  error  of  this  celebrated  theory. 

There  are  three  great  questions  in  government. 
First,  to  what  authority  is  it  for  the  good  of  the 
people  that  they  should  be  subject  ? Secondly,  how 
are  they  to  be  induced  to  obey  that  authority  ? The 
answers  to  these  two  questions  vary  indefinitely, 
according  to  the  degree  and  kind  of  civilization  and 
cultivation  already  attained  by  a people,  and  their 
peculiar  aptitudes  for  receiving  more.  Comes  next  a 
third  question,  not  liable  to  so  much  variation,  namely, 
by  what  means  are  the  abuses  of  this  authority  to  be 
checked  ? This  third  question  is  the  only  one  of  the 
three  to  which  Bentham  seriously  applied  himself,  and 
he  gives  it  the  only  answer  it  admits  of — Responsi- 
bility : responsibility  to  persons  whose  interest,  whose 
obvious  and  recognisable  interest,  accords  with  the  end 
in  view — good  government.  This  being  granted,  it  is 
next  to  be  asked,  in  what  body  of  persons  this  identity  of 
interest  with  good  government,  that  is,  with  the  interest 
of  the  whole  community,  is  to  be  found  ? In  nothing 
less,  says  Bentham,  than  the  numerical  majority : 
nor,  say  we,  even  in  the  numerical  majority  itself ; of 
no  portion  of  the  community  less  than  all,  will  the 
interest  coincide,  at  all  times  and  in  all  respects,  with 
the  interest  of  all.  But,  since  power  given  to  all,  by 
a representative  government,  is  in  fact  given  to  a 
majority,  we  are  obliged  to  fall  back  upon  the  first  of 
our  three  questions,  namely,  under  what  authority  is 
it  for  the  good  of  the  people  that  they  be  placed  ? 
And  if  to  this  the  answer  be,  under  that  of  a majority 
among  themselves,  Bentham’s  system  cannot  be  ques- 
tioned. This  one  assumption  being  made,  his  “ Consti- 
tutional Code  ” is  admirable.  That  extraordinary 
power  which  he  possessed,  of  at  once  seizing  compre- 
hensive principles,  and  scheming  out  minute  details,  is 
brought  into  play  with  surpassing  vigour  in  devising 
means  for  preventing  rulers  from  escaping  from  the 
control  of  the  majority ; for  enabling  and  inducing  the 


BENTHAM 


309 


majority  to  exercise  that  control  unremittingly  ; and 
for  providing  them  with  servants  of  every  desirable 
endowment,  moral  and  intellectual,  compatible  with 
entire  subservience  to  their  will. 

But  is  this  fundamental  doctrine  of  Bentham’s 
political  philosophy  a universal  truth  ? Is  it,  at  all 
times  and  places,  good  for  mankind  to  be  under  the 
absolute  authority  of  the  majority  of  themselves  ? We 
say  the  authority,  not  the  political  authority  merely, 
because  it  is  chimerical  to  suppose  that  whatever  has 
absolute  power  over  men’s  bodies  will  not  arrogate  it 
over  their  minds — will  not  seek  to  control  (not  per- 
haps by  legal  penalties,  but  by  the  persecutions  of 
society)  opinions  and  feelings  which  depart  from  its 
standard ; will  not  attempt  to  shape  the  education  of 
the  young  by  its  model,  and  to  extinguish  all  books, 
all  schools,  all  combinations  of  individuals  for  joint 
action  upon  society,  which  may  be  attempted  for  the 
purpose  of  keeping  alive  a spirit  at  variance  with  its 
own.  Is  it,  we  say,  the  proper  condition  of  man,  in 
all  ages  and  nations,  to  be  under  the  despotism  of 
Public  Opinion  *? 

It  is  very  conceivable  that  such  a doctrine  should 
find  acceptance  from  some  of  the  noblest  spirits,  in  a 
time  of  reaction  against  the  aristocratic  governments 
of  modern  Europe,  governments  founded  on  the 
entire  sacrifice  (except  so  far  as  prudence,  and  some- 
times humane  feelings  interfere)  of  the  community 
generally,  to  the  self  - interest  and  ease  of  a few. 
European  reformers  have  been  accustomed  to  see  the 
numerical  majority  everywhere  unjustly  depressed, 
everywhere  trampled  upon,  or  at  the  best  overlooked, 
by  governments  ; nowhere  possessing  power  enough 
to  extort  redress  of  their  most  positive  grievances, 
provision  for  their  mental  culture,  or  even  to  prevent 
themselves  from  being  taxed  avowedly  for  the  pecu- 
niary profit  of  the  ruling  classes.  To  see  th£se  things, 
and  to  seek  to  put  an  end  to  them,  by  means  (among 
other  things)  of  giving  more  political  power  to  the 
majority,  constitutes  Radicalism  ; and  it  is  because  so 


310 


BENTHAM 


many  in  this  age  have  felt  this  wish,  and  have  felt 
that  the  realization  of  it  was  an  object  worthy  of 
men’s  devoting  their  lives  to  it,  that  such  a theory  of 
government  as  Bentham’s  has  found  favour  with  them. 
But,  though  to  pass  from  one  form  of  bad  govern- 
ment to  another  be  the  ordinary  fate  of  mankind, 
philosophers  ought  not  to  make  themselves  parties  to 
it,  by  sacrificing  one  portion  of  important  truth  to 
another. 

The  numerical  majority  of  any  society  whatever 
must  consist  of  persons  all  standing  in  the  same  social 
position  and  having,  in  the  main  the  same  pursuits, 
namely,  unskilled  manual  labourers  ; and  we  mean  no 
disparagement  to  them  : whatever  we  say  to  their 
disadvantage,  we  say  equally  of  a numerical  majority 
of  shopkeepers,  or  of  squires.  Where  there  is  identity 
of  position  and  pursuits,  there  also  will  be  identity  of 
partialities,  passions,  and  prejudices  ; and  to  give  to 
any  one  set  of  partialities,  passions,  and  prejudices, 
absolute  power,  without  counter-balance  from  partiali- 
ties, passions,  and  prejudices  of  a different  sort,  is  the 
way  to  render  the  correction  of  any  of  those  imper- 
fections hopeless  ; to  make  one  narrow,  mean  type  of 
human  nature  universal  and  perpetual,  and  to  crush 
every  influence  which  tends  to  the  further  improve- 
ment of  man’s  intellectual  and  moral  nature.  There 
must,  we  know,  be  some  paramount  power  in  society  ; 
and  that  the  majority  should  be  that  power,  is  on  the 
whole  right,  not  as  being  just  in  itself,  but  as  being 
less  unjust  than/  any  other  footing  on  which  the  matter 
can  be  placed.  But  it  is  necessary  that  the  institu- 
tions of  society  should  make  provision  for  keeping  up, 
in  some  form  or  other,  as  a corrective  to  partial  views, 
and  a shelter  for  freedom  of  thought  and  individuality 
of  character,  a perpetual  vand  standing  Opposition  to 
the  will  of  the  majority.  All  countries  which  have 
long  continued  progressive,  or  been  durably  great, 
have  been  so  because  there  has  been  an  organized 
opposition  to  the  ruling  power,  of  whatever,  kind  that 
power  was  : plebeians  to  patricians,  clergy  to  kings, 


BENTHAM 


811 


freethinkers  to  clergy,  kings  to  barons,  commons  to 
king  and  aristocracy.  Almost  all  the  greatest  men 
who  ever  lived  have  formed  part  of  such  an  Opposi- 
tion. Wherever  some  such  quarrel  has  not  been 
going  on  — wherever  it  has  been  terminated  by  the 
complete  victory  of  one  of  the  contending  principles, 
and  no  new  contest  has  taken  the  place  of  the  old 
— society  has  either  hardened  into  Chinese  station- 
ariness,  or  fallen  into  dissolution.  A centre  of  resis- 
tance, round  which  all  the  moral  and  social  elements 
which  the  ruling  power  views  with  disfavour  may 
cluster  themselves,  and  behind  whose  bulwarks  they 
may  find  shelter  from  the  attempts  of  that  power  to 
hunt  them  out  of  existence,  is  as  necessary  where  the 
opinion  of  the  majority  is  sovereign,  as  where  the 
ruling  power  is  a hierarchy  or  an  aristocracy.  Where 
no  such  point  dJappui  exists,  there  the  human  race  will 
inevitably^egenerate  ; and  the  question,  whether  the 
United  States,  for  instance,  will  in  time  sink  into 
another  China  (also  a most  commercial  and  industrious 
nation),  resolves  itself,  to  us,  into  the  question,  whether 
such  a centre  of  resistance  will  gradually  evolve  itself 
or  not. 

These  things  being  considered,  we  cannot  think 
that  Bentham  made  the  most  useful  employment 
which  might  have  been  made  of  his  great  powers, 
when,  not  content  with  enthroning  the  majority  as 
sovereign,  by  means  of  universal  suffrage  without 
king  or  house  of  lords,  he  exhausted  all  the  resources  of 
ingenuity  in  devising  means  for  riveting  the  yoke  of 
public  opinion  closer  and  closer  round  the  necks  of  all 
public  functionaries,  and  excluding  every  possibility 
of  the  exercise  of  the  slightest  or  most  temporary  in- 
fluence either  by  a minority,  or  by  the  functionary’s 
own  notions  of  right.  Surely  when  any  power  has 
been  made  the  strongest  power,  enough  has  been  done 
for  it;  care  is  thenceforth  wanted  rather  to  prevent 
that  strongest  power  from  swallowing  up  all  others. 
Wherever  all  the  forces  of  society  act  in  one  single 
direction,  the  just  claims  of  the  individual  human 


812 


BENTHAM 


being  are  in  extreme  peril.  The  power  of  the 
majority  is  salutary  so  far  as  it  is  used  defensively, 
not  offensively — as  its  exertion  is  tempered  by  respect 
for  the  personality  of  the  individual,  and  deference 
to  superiority  of  cultivated  intelligence.  If  Bentham 
had  employed  himself  in  pointing  out  the  means  by 
which  institutions  fundamentally  democratic  might  be 
best  adapted  to  the  preservation  and  strengthening  of 
tho^e  two  sentiments,  he  would  have  done  something 
more  permanently  valuable,  and  more  worthy  of  his 
great  intellect.  Montesquieu,  with  the  lights  of  the 
present  age,  would  have  done  it ; and  we  are  possibly 
destined  to  receive  this  benefit  from  the  Montesquieu 
of  our  own  times,  M.  de  Tocqueville. 

Do  we  then  consider  Bentham’s  political  speculations 
useless  ? Far  from  it.  We  consider  them  only  one- 
sided. He  has  brought  out  into  a strong  light,  has 
cleared  from  a thousand  confusions  and  misconcep- 
tions, and  pointed  out  with  admirable  skill  the  best 
means  of  promoting,  one  of  the  ideal  qualities  of  a 
perfect  government — identity  of  interest  between  the 
trustees  and  the  community  for  whom  they  hold  their 
power  in  trust.  This  quality  is  not  attainable  in  its 
ideal  perfection,  and  must  moreover  be  striven  for 
with  a perpetual  eye  to  all  other  requisites  ; but  those 
other  requisites  must  still  more  be  striven  for  without 
losing  sight  of  this ; and  when  the  slightest  postpone- 
ment is  made  of  it  to  any  other  end,  the  sacrifice,  often 
necessary,  is  never  unattended  with  evil.*  Bentham 
has  pointed  out  how  complete  this  sacrifice  is  in 
modem  European  societies : how  exclusively,  partial 
and  sinister  interests  are  the  ruling  power  there,  with 
only  such  check  as  is  imposed  by  public  opinion — 
which  being  thus,  in  the  existing  order  of  things,  per- 
petually apparent  as  a source  of  good,  he  was  led  by 
natural  partiality  to  exaggerate  its  intrinsic  excellence. 
This  sinister  interest  of  rulers  Bentham  hunted  through 
all  its  disguises,  and  especially  through  those  which 

* [For  further  illustrations  of  this  point,  see  the  Appendix 
to  the  present  volume.] 


BENTHAM 


313 


hide  it  from  the  men  themselves  who  are  influenced 
by  it.  The  greatest  service  rendered  by  him  to  the 
philosophy  of  universal  human  nature,  is,  perhaps,  his 
illustration  of  what  he  terms  “ interest -begotten  pre- 
judice”— the  common  tendency  of  man  to  make  a duty 
and  a virtue  of  following  his  self-interest.  The  idea,  it 
is  true,  was  far  from  being  peculiarly  Bentham’s  : the 
artifices  by  which  we  persuade  ourselves  that  we  are 
not  yielding  to  our  selfish  inclinations  when  we  are, 
had  attracted  the  notice  of  all  moralists,  and  had  been 
probed  by  religious  writers  to  a depth  as  much  below 
Bentham’s,  as  their  knowledge  of  the  profundities  and 
windings  of  the  human  heart  was  superior  to  his.  But 
it  is  selfish  interest  in  the  form  of  class-interest,  and 
the  class  morality  founded  thereon,  which  Bentham 
has  illustrated : the  manner  in  which  any  set  of  persons 
who  mix  much  together,  and  have  a common  interest, 
are  apt  to  make  that  common  interest  their  standard 
of  virtue,  and  the  social  feelings  of  the  members  of  the 
class  are  made  to  play  into  the  hands  of  their  selfish 
ones ; whence  the  union  so  often  exemplified  in  history, 
between  the  most  heroic  personal  disinterestedness  and 
the  most  odious  class-selfishness.  This  was  one  of 
Bentham’s  leading  ideas,  and  almost  the  only  one  by 
which  he  contributed  to  the  elucidation  of  history  : 
much  of  which,  except  so  far  as  this  explained  it,  must 
have  been  entirely  inexplicable  to  him.  The  idea  was 
given  him  by  Helvetius,  whose  book,  De  VEsprit , is 
one  continued  and  most  acute  commentary  on  it ; and, 
together  with  the  other  great  idea  of  Helvetius,  the 
influence  of  circumstances  on  character,  it  will  make 
his  name  live  by  the  side  of  Rousseau,  when  most  of  the 
other  French  metaphysicians  of  the  eighteenth  century 
will  be  extant  as  such  only  in  literary  history. 

In  the  brief  view  which  we  have  been  able  to  give  of 
Bentham’s  philosophy,  it  may  surprise  the  reader  that 
we  have  said  so  little  about  the  first  principle  of  it, 
with  which  his  name  is  more  identified  than  with  any- 
thing else  ; the  “ principle  of  utility,”  or,  as  he  after- 
wards named  it,  “the  greatest-happiness  principle.” 


314 


BENTHAM 


It  is  a topic  on  which  much  were  to  be  said,  if  there 
were  room,  or  if  it  were  in  reality  necessary  for  the 
just  estimation  of  Bentham.  On  an  occasion  more 
suitable  for  a discussion  of  the  metaphysics  of  morality, 
or  on  which  the  elucidations  necessary  to  make  an 
opinion  on  so  abstract  a subject  intelligible  could  be 
conveniently  given,  we  should  be  fully  prepared  to 
state  what  we  think  on  this  subject.  At  present  we 
shall  only  say,  that  while,  under  proper  explanations, 
we  entirely  agree  with  Bentham  in  his  principle,  we  do 
not  hold  with  him  that  all  right  thinking  on  the  details 
of  morals  depends  on  its  express  assertion.  We  think 
utility,  or  happiness,  much  too  complex  and  indefinite 
an  end  to  be  sought  except  through  the  medium  of 
various  secondary  ends,  concerning  which  there  may 
be,  and  often  is,  agreement  among  persons  who  differ 
in  their  ultimate  standard ; and  about  which  there 
does  in  fact  prevail  a much  greater  unanimity  among 
thinking  persons,  than  might  be  supposed  from  their 
diametrical  divergence  on  the  great  questions  of  moral 
metaphysics.  As  mankind  are  much  more  nearly  of 
one  nature,  than  of  one  opinion  about  their  own 
nature,  they  are  more  easily  brought  to  agree  in  their 
intermediate  principles,  vera  ilia  et  media  axiomata , 
as  Bacon  says,  than  in  their  first  principles : and  the 
attempt  to  make  the  bearings  of  actions  upon  the 
ultimate  end  more  evident  than  they  can  be  made 
by  referring  them  to  the  intermediate  ends,  and  to 
estimate  their  value  by  a direct  reference  to  human 
happiness,  generally  terminates  in  attaching  most  im- 
portance, not  to  those  effects  which  are  really  the 
greatest,  but  to  those  which  cspi  most  easily  be  pointed 
to  and  individually  identified,  f Those  who  adopt  utility 
as  a standard  can  seldom  apply  it  truly  except  through 
the  secondary  principles;  those  who  reject  it,  gener- 
ally do  no  more  thap.  erect  those  secondary  principles 
into  first  principles.  It  is  when  two  or  more  of  the 
secondary  principles  conflict,  that  a direct  appeal  to 
some  first  principle  becomes  necessary;  and  then 
commences  the  practical  importance  of  the  utilitarian 


BENTHAM 


315 


controversy ; which  is  in  other  respects,  a question  of 
arrangement  and  logical  subordination  rather  than  of 
practice ; important  principally  in  a purely  scientific 
point  of  view,  for  the  sake  of  the  systematic  unity  and 
coherency  of  ethical  philosophy.  It  is  probable,  how- 
ever, that  to  the  principle  of  utility  we  owe  all  that 
Bentham  did  : that  it  was  necessary  to  him  to  find  a 
first  principle  which  he  could  receive  as  self-evident, 
and  to  which  he  could  attach  all  his  other  doctrines  as 
logical  consequences  : that  to  him  systematic  unity 
was  an  indispensable  condition  of  his  confidence  in  his 
own  intellect.  And  there  is  something  further  to  be 
remarked.  Whether  happiness  be  o^  be  not  the  end  to 
which  morality  should  be  referred— that  it  be  referred 
to  an  end  of  some  sort,  and  not  left  in  the  dominion  of 
vague  feeling  or  inexplicable  internal  conviction,  that 
it  be  made  a matter  of  reason  and  calculation,  and  not 
merely  of  sentiment,  is  essential  to  the  very  idea  of 
moral  philosophy ) is,  in  fact,  what  renders  argument 
or  discussion  on  moral  questions  possible.  That  the 
morality  of  actions  depends  on  the  consequences  which 
they  tend  to  produce,  is  the  doctrine  of  rational  persons 
of  all  schools ; that  the  good  or  evil  of  those  consequences 
is  measured  solely  by  pleasure  or  pain,  is  all  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  school  of  utility,  which  is  peculiar  to  it. 

In  so  far  as  Bentham’ s adoption  of  the  principle  of 
utility  induced  him  to  fix  his  attention  upon  the  con- 
sequences of  actions  as  the  consideration  determining 
their  morality,  so  far  he  was  indisputably  in  the 
right  path  : though  to  go  far  in  it  without  wandering, 
there  was  needed  a greater  knowledge  of  the  formation 
of  character,  and  of  the  consequences  of  actions  upon 
the  agent’s  own  frame  of  mind,  than  Bentham  pos- 
sessed. His  want  of  power  to  estimate  this  class  of 
consequences,  together  with  his  want  of  the  degree  of 
modest  deference  which,  from  those  who  have  not 
competent  experience  of  their  own,  is  due  to  the  ex- 
perience of  others  on  that  part  of  the  subject,  greatly 
limit  the  value  of  his  speculations  on  questions  of 
practical  ethics. 


316 


BENTHAM 


He  is  chargeable  also  with  another  error,  which  it 
would  be  improper  to  pass  over,  because  nothing  has 
tended  more  to  place  him  in  opposition  to  the  common 
feelings  of  mankind,  and  to  give  to  his  philosophy  that 
cold,  mechanical,  and  ungenial  air  which  characterizes 
the  popular  idea  of  a Benthamite.  This  error,  or 
rather  one-sidedness,  belongs  to  him  not  as  a utili- 
tarian, but  as  a moralist  by  profession,  and  in  common 
with  almost  all  professed  moralists,  whether  religious 
or  philosophical : it  is  that  of  treating  the  moral  view 
of  actions  and  characters,  which  is  unquestionably  the 
first  and  most  important  mode  of  looking  at  them,  as 
if  it  were  the  sole  one : whereas  it  is  only  one  of  three, 
by  all  of  which  our  sentiments  towards  the  human 
being  may  be,  ought  to  be,  and  without  entirely  crush- 
ing our  own  nature  cannot  but  be,  materially  influenced.  • 
Every  human  action  has  three  aspects : its  m,oral  j 
aspect,  or  that  of  its  right  and  wrong  : its  cesthetic 
aspect,  or  that  of  its  beauty ; its  sympathetic  aspect, 
or  that  of  its  loveableness.  The  first  addresses  itself  i 
to  our  reason  and  conscience ; the  second  to  our 
imagination ; the  third  to  our  human  fellow-feeling. 
According  to  the  first,  we  approve  or  disapprove ; ac- 
cording to  the  second,  we  admire  or  despise  ; according 
to  the  third,  we  love,  pity,  or  dislike.  The  morality  of 
an  action  depends  on  its  foreseeable  consequences ; its 
beauty,  and  its  loveableness,  or  the  reverse,  depend  on 
the  qualities  which  it  is  evidence  of.  Thus,  a lie  is  • 
wrong , because  its  effect  is  to  mislead,  and  because  it  ' 
tends  to  destroy  the  confidence  of  man  in  man  ; it  is  < 
also  mean,  because  it  is  cowardly — because  it  proceeds  ‘ 
from  not  daring  to  face  the  consequences  of  telling  the 
truth — or  at  best  is  evidence  of  want  of  that  power  to 
compass  our  ends  by  straightforward  means,  which  is 
conceived  as  properly  belonging  to  every  person  not 
deficient  in  energy  or  in  understanding.  The  action  of 
Brutus  in  sentencing  his  sons  was  right , because  it  was 
executing  a law  essential  to  the  freedom  of  his  country, 
against  persons  of  whose  guilt  there  was  no  doubt : it 
was  admirable , because  it  evinced  a rare  degree  of 


BENTHAM 


317 


patriotism,  courage,  and  self-control ; but  there  was 
nothing  loveable  in  it  ; it  affords  either  no  presumption 
in  regard  to  loveable  qualities,  or  a presumption  of 
their  deficiency.  If  one  of  the  sons  had  engaged  in 
the  conspiracy  from  affection  for  the  other,  his  action 
would  have  been  loveable,  though  neither  moral  nor 
admirable.  It  is  not  possible  for  any  sophistry  to  con- 
found these  three  modes  of  viewing  an  action  ; but  it 
is  very  possible  to  adhere  to  one  of  them  exclusively, 
and  lose  sight  of  the  rest.  Sentimentality  consists  in 
setting  the  last  two  of  the  three  above  the  first ; the 
error  of  moralists  in  general,  and  of  Bentham,  is  to 
sink  the  two  latter  entirely.  This  is  pre-eminently  the 
case  with  Bentham  :/he  both  wrote  and  felt  as  if  the 
moral  standard  ought  not  only  to  be  paramount  (whiclj 
it  ought),  but  to  be  alone ; as  if  it  ought  to  be  the  sole 
master  of  all  our  actions,}  and  even  of  all  our  senti- 
ments ; as  if  either  to  admire  or  like,  or  despise  or  dis- 
like a person  for  any  action  which  neither  does  good 
nor  harm,  or  which  does  not  do  a good  or  a harm  pro- 
portioned to  the  sentiment  entertained,  were  an  in- 
justice and  a prejudice.  He  carried  this  so  far,  that 
there  were  certain  phrases  which,  being  expressive  of 
what  he  considered  to  be  this  groundless  liking  or 
aversion,  he  could  not  bear  to  hear  pronounced  in  his 
presence.  Among  these  phrases  were  those  of  good 
and  bad  taste.  He  thought  it  an  insolent  piece  of  dog- 
matism in  one  person  to  praise  or  condemn  another  in 
a matter  of  taste : as  if  men’s  likings  and  dislikings,  on 
things  in  themselves  indifferent,  were  not  full  of  the 
most  important  inferences  as  to  every  point  of  their 
eharacter ; as  if  a person’s  tastes  did  not  show  him  to 
be  wise  or  a fool,  cultivated  or  ignorant,  gentle  or 
rough,  sensitive  or  callous,  generous  or  sordid,  benevo- 
lent or  selfish,  conscientious  or  depraved. 

Connected  with  the  same  topic  are  Bentham’s  pecu- 
liar opinions  on  poetry.  Much  more  has  been  said 
than  there  is  any  foundation  for,  about  his  contempt 
for  the  pleasures  of  imagination,  and  for  the  fine  arts. 
Music  was  throughout  life  his  favourite  amusement ; 


318 


BENTHAM 


painting,  sculpture,  and  the  other  arts  addressed  to 
the  eye,  he  was  so  far  from  holding  in  any  contempt, 
that  he  occasionally  recognises  them  as  means  employ- 
able for  important  social  ends  ; though  his  ignorance 
of  the  deeper  springs  of  human  character  prevented 
him  (as  it  prevents  most  Englishmen)  from  suspecting 
how  profoundly  such  things  enter  into  the  moral  nature 
of  man,  and  into  the  education  both  of  the  individual 
and  of  the  race.  But  towards  poetry  in  the  narrower 
sense,  that  which  employs  the  language  of  words,  he 
entertained  no  favour.  Words,  he  thought,  were  per- 
verted from  their  proper  office  when  they  were  em- 
ployed in  uttering  anything  but  precise  logical  truth. 
He  says,  somewhere  in  his  works,  that  “ quantity  of 
pleasure  being  equal,  push-pin  is  as  good  as  poetry”: 
but  this  is  only  a paradoxical  way  of  stating  what  he 
would  equally  have  said  of  the  things  which  he  mosfr 
valued  and  admired.  Another  aphorism  is  attributed 
to  him,  which  is  much  more  characteristic  of  his  view 
of  this  subject:  “All  poetry  is  misrepresentation.’” 
Poetry,  he  thought,  consisted  essentially  in  exaggera- 
tion for  effect : in  proclaiming  some  one  view  of  a 
thing  very  emphatically,  and  suppressing  all  the  limi- 
tations and  qualifications.  This  trait  of  character 
seems  to  us  a curious  example  of  what  Mr.  Carlyle 
strikingly  calls  “the  completeness  of  limited  men.” 
Here  is  a philosopher  who  is  happy  within  his  narrow 
boundary  as  no  man  of  indefinite  range  ever  was  : who ; 
flatters  himself  that  he  is  so  completely  emancipated ‘ 
from  the  essential  law  of  poor  human  intellect,  by 
which  it  can  only  see  one  thing  at  a time  well,  that  he 
can  even  turn  round  upon  the  imperfection  and  lay  a 
solemn  interdict  upon  it.  Did  Bentham  really  suppose 
that  it  is  in  poetry  only  that  propositions  cannot  be 
exactly  true,  cannot  contain  in  themselves  all  the 
limitations  and  qualifications  with  which  they  require 
to  be  taken  when  applied  to  practice  ? We  have  seen 
how  far  his  own  prose  propositions  are  from  realizing 
this  Utopia : and  even  the  attempt  to  approach  it 
would  be  incompatible  not  with  poetry  merely,  but 


BENTHAM 


319 


with  oratory,  and  popular  writing  of  every  kind.  Ben- 
tham’s  charge  is  true  to  the  fullest  extent ; all  writing 
which  undertakes  to  make  men  feel  truths  as  well  as 
to  see  them,  does  take  up  one  point  at  a time,  does 
seek  to  impress  that,  to  drive  that  home,  to  make  it 
sink  into  and  colour  the  whole  mind  of  the  reader  or 
hearer.  It  is  justified  in  doing  so,  if  the  portion  of 
truth  which  it  thus  enforces  be  that  which  is  called  for 
by  the  occasion.  All  writing  addressed  to  the  feelings 
has  a natural  tendency  to  exaggeration  ; but  Bentham 
should  have  remembered  that  in  this,  as  in  many 
things,  we  must  aim  at  too  much,  to  be  assured  of 
doing  enough. 

From  the  same  principle  in  Bentham  came  the 
intricate  and  involved  style,  which  makes  his  later 
writings  books  for  the  student  only,  not  the  general 
reader.  It  was  from  his  perpetually  aiming  at  imprac- 
ticable precision.  Nearly  all  his  earlier,  and  many 
parts  of  his  later  writings,  are  models,  as  we  have 
already  observed,  of  light,  playful,  and  popular  style  : 
a Benthamiana  might  be  made  of  passages  worthy  of 
Addison  or  Goldsmith.  But  in  his  later  years  and 
more  advanced  studies,  he  fell  into  a Latin  or  German 
structure  of  sentence,  foreign  to  the  genius  of  the 
English  language.  He  could  not  bear,  for  the  sake  of 
clearness  and  the  reader’s  ease,  to  say,  as  ordinary 
men  are  content  to  do,  a little  more  than  the  truth  in 
one  sentence,  and  correct  it  in  the  next.  The  whole  of 
the  qualifying  remarks  which  he  intended  to  make,  he 
insisted  upon  imbedding  as  parentheses  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  sentence  itself.  And  thus  the  sense 
being  so  long  suspended,  and  attention  being  required 
to  the  accessory  ideas  before  the  principal  idea  had 
been  properly  seized,  it  became  difficult,  without  some 
practice,  to  make  out  the  train  of  thought.  It  is 
fortunate  that  so  many  of  the  most  important  parts 
of  his  writings  are  free  from  this  defect.  We  regard 
it  as  a reductio  ad  absurdum  of  his  objection  to 
poetry.  In  trying  to  write  in  a manner  against  which 
the  same  objection  should  not  lie,  he  could  stop 


320 


BENTHAM 


nowhere  short  of  utter  unreadableness,  and  after  all 
attained  no  more  accuracy  than  is  compatible  with 
opinions  as  imperfect  and  one-sided  as  those  of  any 
poet  or  sentimentalist  breathing.  Judge  then  in  what 
state  literature  and  philosophy  would  be,  and  what 
chance  they  would  have  of  influencing  the  multitude, 
if  his  objection  were  allowed,  and  all  styles  of  writing 
banished  which  would  not  stand  his  test. 

We  must  here  close  this  brief  and  imperfect  view 
of  Bentham  and  his  doctrines  ; in  which  many  parts 
of  the  subject  have  been  entirely  untouched,  and  no 
part  done  justice  to,  but  which  at  least  proceeds  from 
an  intimate  familiarity  with  his  writings,  and  is  nearly 
the  first  attempt  at  an  impartial  estimate  of  his 
character  as  a philosopher,  and  of  the  result  of  his 
labours  to  the  world. 

After  every  abatement,  and  it  has  been  seen  whether 
we  have  made  our  abatements  sparingly — there  remains 
to  Bentham  an  indisputable  place  among  the  great 
intellectual  benefactors  of  mankind.  His  writings  will 
long  form  an  indispensable  part  of  the  education  of 
the  highest  order  of  practical  thinkers ; and  the 
collected  edition  of  them  ought  to  be  in  the  hands  of 
every  one  who  would  either  understand  his  age,  or 
take  any  beneficial  part  in  the  great  business  of  it.* 

* Since  the  first  publication  of  this  paper,  Lord  Brougham’s 
brilliant  series  of  characters  has  been  published,  including  a 
sketch  of  Bentham.  Lord  Brougham’s  view  of  Bentham’s 
characteristics  agrees  in  the  main  points,  so  far  as  it  goes,  with 
the  result  of  our  more  minute  examination,  but  there  is  an 
imputation  cast  upon  Bentham,  of  a jealous  and  splenetic 
disposition  in  private  life,  of  which  we  feel  called  upon  to 
give  at  once  a contradiction  and  an  explanation.  It  is  in- 
dispensable to  a correct  estimate  of  any  of  Bentham’s  dealings 
with  the  world,  to  bear  in  mind  that  in  everything  except 
abstract  speculation  he  was  to  the  last,  what  we  have  called 
him,  essentially  a boy.  Be  had  the  freshness,  the  simplicity, 
the  confidingness,  the  liveliness  and  activity,  all  the  delight- 
ful qualities  of  boyhood,  and  the  weaknesses  which  are  the 
reverse  side  of  those  qualities — the  undue  importance  attached 
to  trifles,  the  habitual  mismeasurement  of  the  practical  bear- 
ing and  value  of  things,  the  readiness  to  be  either  delighted 


BENTHA.M 


821 


or  offended  on  inadequate  cause.  These  were  the  real  sources 
of  what  was  unreasonable  in  some  of  his  attacks  on  individuals, 
and  in  particular  on  Lord  Brougham,  on  the  subject  of  his 
Law  Reforms  : they  were  no  more  the  effect  of  envy  or 
malice,  or  any  really  unamiable  quality,  than  the  freaks  of  a 
pettish  child,  and  are  scarcely  a fitter  subject  of  censure  or 
criticism. 


21 


COLERIDGE* 


The  name  of  Coleridge  is  one  of  the  few  English 
names  of  our  time  which  are  likely  to  be  oftener  pro- 
nounced, and  to  become  symbolical  of  more  important 
things,  in  proportion  as  the  inward  workings  of  the 
age  manifest  themselves  more  and  more  in  outward 
facts.  Bentham  excepted,  no  Englishman  of  recent 
date  has  left  his  impress  so  deeply  in  the  opinions 

I and  mental  tendencies  of  those  among  us  who  attempt 
to  enlighten  their  practice  by  philosophical  meditation. 
If  it  be  true,  as  Lord  Bacon  affirms,  that  a knowledge 
of  the  speculative  opinions  of  the  men  between  twenty 
and  thirty  years  of  age  is  the  great  source  of  political 
’ prophecy,  the  existence  of  Coleridge  will  show  itself 
by  no  slight  or  ambiguous  traces  in  the  coming  history 
of  our  country;  for  no  one  has  contributed  more  to 
shape  the  opinions  of  those  among  its  younger  men, 
who  can  be  said  to  have  opinions  at  all. 

The  influence  of  Coleridge,  like  that  of  Bentham, 
extends  far  beyond  those  who  share  in  the  peculiarities 
of  his  religious  or  philosophical  creed.  He  has  been 
the  great  awakener  in  this  country  of  the  spirit  of 
philosophy,  within  the  bounds  of  traditional  opinions.  , 
He  has  been,  almost  as  truly  as  Bentham,  “the  great 
questioner  of  things  established v ; for  a questioner  ' 
needs  not  necessarily  be  an  enemy.  By  Bentham, 
beyond  all  others,  men  have  been  led  to  ask  them- 
selves, in  regard  to  any  ancient  or  received  opinion, 
Is  it  true  ? and  by  Coleridge,  What  is  the  meaning 
of  it  ? The  one  took  his  stand  outside  the  received 
opinion,  and  surveyed  it  as  an  entire  stranger  to  it : 
the  other  looked  at  it  from  within,  and  endeavoured 
to  see  it  with  the  eyes  of  a believer  in  it ; to  discover 
* London  and  Westminster  Review,  March,  1840. 

322 


COLERIDGE 


323 


by  what  apparent  facts  it  was  at  first  suggested,  and 
by  what  appearances  it  has  ever  since  been  rendered 
continually  credible — has  seemed,  to  a succession  of 
persons,  to  be  a faithful  interpretation  of  their  experi- 
ence. Bentham  judged  a proposition  true  or  false 
as  it  accorded  or  not  with  the  result  of  his  own 
inquiries ; and  did  not  search  very  curiously  into  wThat 
might  be  meant  by  the  proposition,  when  it  obviously 
did  not  mean  what  he  thought  true.  With  Coleridge, 
on  the  contrary,  the  very  fact  that  any  doctrine  had 
been  believed  by  thoughtful  men,  and  received  by 
whole  nations  or  generations  of  mankind,  was  part  of 
the  problem  to  be  solved,  was  one  of  the  phenomena 
to  be  accounted  for.  And  as  Bentham’s  short  and  easy 
method  of  referring  all  to  the  selfish  interests  of  aristo- 
cracies, or  priests,  or  lawyers,  or  some  other  species  of 
impostors,  could  not  satisfy  a man  who  saw  so  much 
farther  into  the  complexities  of  the  human  intellect  and 
feelings — he  considered  the  long  or  extensive  preva- 
lence of  any  opinion  as  a presumption  that  it  was  not 
altogether  a fallacy ; that,  to  its  first  authors  at  least, 
it  was  the  result  of  a struggle  to  express  in  words 
something  which  had  a reality  to  them,  though  perhaps 
not  to  many  of  those  who  have  since  received  the 
doctrine  by  mere  tradition.  The  long  duration  of  a 
belief,  he  thought,  is  at  least  proof  of  an  adaptation  in 
it  to  some  portion  or  other  of  the  human  mind : and 
if,  on  digging  down  to  the  root,  we  do  not  find,  as  is 
generally  the  case,  some  truth,  we  shall  find  some 
natural  want  or  requirement  of  human  nature  which 
the  doctrine  in  question  is  fitted  to  satisfy : among 
which  wants  the  instincts  of  selfishness  and  of  cre- 
dulity have  a place,  but  by  no  means  an  exclusive  one. 
From  this  difference  in  the  points  of  view  of  the  two 
philosophers,  and  from  the  too  rigid  adherence  of  each 
to  his  own,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  Bentham  should 
continually  miss  the  truth  which  is  in  the  traditional 
opinions,  and  Coleridge  that  which  is  out  of  them,  and 
at  variance  with  them.  But  it  was  also  likely  that 

21—2 


824 


COLERIDGE 


each  would  find,  or  show  the  way  to  finding,  much  of 
what  the  other  missed. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  speak  of  Coleridge,  and  his 
position  among  his  cotemporaries,  without  reverting  to 
Bentham : they  are  connected  by  two  of  the  closest 
bonds  of  association — resemblance  and  contrast.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  find  two  persons  of  philosophic 
eminence  more  exactly  the  contrary  of  one  another. 
Compare  their  modes  of  treatment  of  any  subject,  and 
you  might  fancy  them  inhabitants  of  different  worlds. 
They  seem  to  have  scarcely  a principle  or  a premise  in 
common.  Each  of  them  sees  scarcely  anything  but 
what  the  other  does  not  see.  Bentham  would  have 
regarded  Coleridge  with  a peculiar  measure  of  the 
good-humoured  contempt  with  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  regard  all  modes  of  philosophizing  different 
from  his  own.  Coleridge  would  probably  have  made 
Bentham  one  of  the  exceptions  to  the  enlarged  and 
liberal  appreciation  which  (to  the  credit  of  his  mode  of 
philosophizing)  he  extended  to  most  thinkers  of  any 
\ eminence,  from  whom  he  differed.  But  contraries,  as 
logicians  say,  are  but  quce  in  eodem  genere  maxime 
distant , the  things  which  are  farthest  from  one  another 
j in  the  same  kind.  These  two  agreed  in  being  the  men 
/who,  in  their  age  and  country,  did  most  to  enforce,  by 
precept  and  example,  the  necessity  of  a philosophy. 
Q They  agreed  in  making  it  their  occupation  to  recall 
opinions  to  first  principles ; taking  no  proposition  for 
granted  without  examining  into  the  grounds  of  it,  and 
ascertaining  that  it  possessed  the  kind  and  degree  of 
3 evidence  suitable  to  its  nature.  They  agreed  in  recog- 
nising that  sound  theory  is  the  only  foundation  for 
sound  practice,  and  that  whoever  despises  theory,  let 
him  give  himself  what  airs  of  wisdorh  he  may,  is  self* 
convicted  of  being  a quack.  If  a book  were  to  be 
compiled  containing  all  the  best  things  ever  said  on 
the  rule-of-thumb  school  of  political  craftsmanship, 
and  on  the  insufficiency  for  practical  purposes  of  what 
the  mere  practical  man  calls  experience,  it  is  difficult 
to  say  whether  the  collection  would  be  more  indebted 


COLERIDGE 


825 


to  the  writings  of  Bentham  or  of  Coleridge.  They 
agreed,  too,  in  perceiving  that  the  groundwork  of  all 
other  philosophy  must  be  laid  in  the  philosophy  of  the 
mind.  To  lay  this  foundation  deeply  and  strongly,  and 
to  raise  a superstructure  in  accordance  with  it,  were 
the  objects  to  which  their  lives  were  devoted.  They 
employed,  indeed,  for  the  most  part,  different  materials ; 
but  as  the  materials  of  both  were  real  observations,  the 
genuine  product  of  experience — the  results  will  in  the 
end  be  found  not  hostile,  but  supplementary,  to  one 
anotherT  Of  their  methods  of  philosophizing,  the  same 
thing  may  be  said : they  were  different,  yet  both  were 
legitimate  logical  processes.  In  every  respect  the  two 
men  are  each  other’s  “completing  counterpart”:  the 
strong  points  of  each  correspond  to  the  weak  points  of 
the  other.  Whoever  could  master  the  premises  and 
combine  the  methods  of  both  would  possess  the  entire 
English  philosophy  of  his  age.  Coleridge  used  to  say 
that  every  one  is  born  either  a Platonist  or  an  Aris- 
totelian : it  may  be  similarly  affirmed,  that  every 
Englishman  of  the  present  day  is  by  implication  either 
a Benthamite  or  a Coleridgian ; holds  views  of  human 
affairs  which  can  only  be  proved  true  on  the  principles 
either  of  Bentham  or  of  Coleridge.  In  one  respect, 
indeed,  the  parallel  fails.  Bentham  so  improved  and 
added  to  the  system  of  philosophy  he  adopted,  that  for 
his  successors  he  may  almost  be  accounted  its  founder  ; 
while  Coleridge,  though  he  has  left  on  the  system  he 
inculcated  such  traces  of  himself  as  cannot  fail  to  be 
left  by  any  mind  of  original  powers,  was  anticipated  in 
all  the  essentials  of  his  doctrine  by  the  great  Germans 
of  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century,  and  was  accom- 
panied in  it  by  the  remarkable  series  of  their  French 
expositors  and  followers.  Hence,  although  Coleridge 
is  to  Englishmen  the  type  and  the  main  source  of  that 
doctrine,  he  is  the  creator  rather  of  the  shape  in 
which  it  has  appeared  among  us,  than  of  the 
doctrine  itself. 

The  time  is  yet  far  distant  when,  in  the  estimation 
of  Coleridge,  and  of  his  influence  upon  the  intellect  of 


326 


COLEEIDGE 


our  time,  anything  like  unanimity  can  be  looked  for. 
As  a poet,  Coleridge  has  taken  his  place.  The  healthier 
taste,  and  more  intelligent  canons  of  poetic  criticism, 
which  he  was  himself  mainly  instrumental  in  diffusing, 
have  at  length  assigned  to  him  his  proper  rank,  as  one 
among  the  great,  and  (if  we  look  to  the  powers  shown 
rather  than  to  the  amount  of  actual  achievement) 
among  the  greatest,  names  in  our  literature.  But  as  a 
philosopher,  the  class  of  thinkers  has  scarcely  yet  arisen 
by  whom  he  is  to  be  judged.  Gfhe  limited  philosophical 
public  of  this  country  is  as  yet  too  exclusively  divided 
between  those  to  whom  Coleridge  and  the  views  which 
he  promulgated  or  defended  are  everything,  and  those 
to  whom  they  are  nothing.  A true  thinker  can  only 
be  justly  estimated  when  his  thoughts  have  worked 
their  way  into  minds  formed  in  a different  school ; have 
been  wrought  and  moulded  into  consistency  with  all 
other  true  and  relevant  thoughts  ; when  the  noisy  con- 
flict of  half-truths,  angrily  denying  one  another,  has 
subsided,  and  ideas  which  seemed  mutually  incom- 
patible, have  been  found  only  to  require  mutual 
limitations.  This  time  has  not  yet  come  for  Cole- 
ridge. The  spirit  of  philosophy  in  England,  like  that 
of  religion,  is  still  rootedly  sectarian.  Conservative 
thinkers  and  Liberals,  transcendentalists  and  admirers 
of  Hobbes  and  Locke,  regard  each  other  as  out  of  the 
pale  of  philosophical  intercourse ; look  upon  each 
other’s  speculations  as  vitiated  by  an  original  taint, 
which  makes  all  study  of  them,  except  for  purposes  of 
attack,  useless,  if  not  mischievous.  An  error  much 
the  same  as  if  Kepler  had  refused  to  profit  by  Ptolemy’s 
or  Tycho’s  observations,  because  those  astronomers 
believed  that  the  sun  moved  round  the  earth ; or  as  if 
Priestley  and  Lavoisier,  because  they  differed  on  the 
doctrine  of  phlogiston,  had  rejected  each  other’s 
chemical  experiments.  It  is  even  a still  greater  error 
than  either  of  these.  For,  among  the  truths  long 
recognised  by  Continental  philosophers,  but  which  very 
few  Englishmen  have  yet  arrived  at,  one  is,  the  im- 
portance, in  the  present  imperfect  state  of  mental  and 


COLEEIDGE 


327 


social  science,  of  antagonist  modes  of  thought : which, 
it  will  one  day  be  felt,  are  as  necessary  to  one  another 
in  speculation,  as  mutually  checking  powers  are  in  a 
political  constitution.  A clear  insight,  indeed,  into  this 
necessity  is  the  only  rational  or  enduring  basis  of  philo- 
sophical tolerance  ; the  only  condition  under  which 
liberality  in  matters  of  opinion  can  be  anything  better 
than  a polite  synonym  for  indifference  between  one 
opinion  and  another. 

All  students  of  man  and  society  who  possess  that 
first  requisite  for  so  difficult  a study,  a due  sense  of 
its  difficulties,  are  aware  that  the  besetting  danger  is 
not  so  much  of  embracing  falsehood  for  truth,  as  of 
mistaking  part  of  the  truth  for  the  whole.  It  might 
be  plausibly  maintained  that  in  almost  every  one  of 
the  leading  controversies,  past  or  present,  in  social 
philosophy,  both  sides  were  in  the  right  in  what  they 
affirmed,  though  wrong  in  what  they  denied  ; and 
that  if  either  could  have  been  made  to  take  the 
other’s  views  in  addition  to  its  own,  little  more 
would  have  been  needed  to  make  its  doctrine  correct. 
Take  for  instance  the  question  how  far  mankind  have 
gained  by  civilization.  One  observer  is  forcibly 
struck  by  the  multiplication  of  physical  comforts ; 
the  advancement  and  diffusion  of  knowledge ; the 
decay  of  superstition;  the  facilities  of  mutual  inter- 
course ; the  softening  of  manners ; the  decline  of  war 
and  personal  conflict ; the  progressive  limitation  of 
the  tyranny  of  the  strong  over  the  weak  ; the  great 
works  accomplished  throughout  the  globe  by  the  co- 
operation of  multitudes  : and  he  becomes  that  very 
common  character,  the  worshipper  of  “ our  enlightened 
age.”  Another  fixes  bis  attention,  not  upon  the  value 
of  these  advantages,  but  upon  the  high  price  which 
is  paid  for  them  ; the  relaxation  of  individual  energy 
and  courage ; the  loss  of  proud  and  self-relying  inde- 
pendence ; the  slavery  of  so  large  a portion  of  mankind 
to  artificial  wants  ; their  effeminate  shrinking  from 
even  the  shadow  of  pain ; the  dull  unexciting  monotony 
of  their  lives,  and  the  passionless  insipidity,  and  absence 


328 


COLERIDGE 


of  any  marked  individuality,  in  their  characters  ; the 
contrast  between  the  narrow  mechanical  understand- 
ing, produced  by  a life  spent  in  executing  by  fixed 
rules  a fixed  task,  and  the  varied  powers  of  the  man 
of  the  woods,  whose  subsistence  and  safety  depend 
at  each  instant  upon  his  capacity  of  extemporarily 
adapting  means  to  ends ; the  demoralizing  effect  of 
great  inequalities  in  wealth  and  social  rank ; and  the 
sufferings  of  the  great  mass  of  the  people  of  civilized 
countries,  whose  wants  are  scarcely  better  provided 
for  than  those  of  the  savage,  while  they  are  bound  by 
a thousand  fetters  in  lieu  of  the  freedom  and  excite- 
ment which  are  his  compensations.  One  who  attends 
to  these  things,  and  to  these  exclusively,  will  be  apt  to 
infer  that  savage  life  is  preferable  to  civilized;  that 
the  work  of  civilization  should  as  far  as  possible  be 
undone  ; and  from  the  premises  of  Rousseau,  he  will 
not  improbably  be  led  to  the  practical  conclusions  of 
Rousseau’s  disciple,  Robespierre.  No  two  thinkers 
can  be  more  entirely  at  variance  than  the  two  we 
have  supposed  — the  worshippers  of  Civilization  and 
of  Independence,  of  the  present  and  of  the  remote 
past.  Yet  all  that  is  positive  in  the  opinions  of  either 
of  them  is  true ; and  we  see  how  easy  it  would  be  to 
choose  one’s  path,  if  either  half  of  the  truth  were  the 
whole  of  it,  and  how  great  may  be  the  difficulty  of 
framing,  as  it  is  necessary  to  do,  a set  of  practical 
maxims  which  combine  both. 

So  again,  one  person  sees  in  a very  strong  light  the 
need  which  the  great  mass  of  mankind  have  of  being 
ruled  over  by  a degree  of  intelligence  and  virtue 
superior  to  their  own.  He  is  deeply  impressed  with 
the  mischief  done  to  the  uneducated  and  uncultivated 
by  weaning  them  of  all  habits  of  reverence,  appealing 
to  them  as  a competent  tribunal  to  decide  the  most 
intricate  questions,  and  making  them  think  themselves 
capable,  not  only  of  being  a light  to  themselves,  but  of 
giving  the  law  to  their  superiors  in  culture.  He  sees, 
further,  that  cultivation,  to  be  carried  beyond  a certain 
jc>oint,  requires  leisure ; that  leisure  is  the  natural 


COLERIDGE 


329 


attribute  of  a hereditary  aristocracy  ; that  such  a body 
has  all  the  means  of  acquiring  intellectual  and  moral 
superiority  ; and  he  needs  be  at  no  loss  to  endow  them 
with  abundant  motives  to  it.  An  aristocracy  indeed, 
being  human,  are,  as  he  cannot  but  see,  not  exempt, 
any  more  than  their  inferiors,  from  the  common  need 
of  being  controlled  and  enlightened  by  a still  greater 
wisdom  and  goodness  than  their  own.  For  this, 
however,  his  reliance  is  upon  reverence  for  a Higher 
above  them,  sedulously  inculcated  and  fostered  by  the 
course  of  their  education.  We  thus  see  brought 
together  all  the  elements  of  a conscientious  zealot  for 
an  aristocratic  government,  supporting  and  supported 
by  an  established  Christian  church.  There  is  truth, 
and  important  truth,  in  this  thinker’s  premises.  But 
there  is  a thinker  of  a very  different  description,  in 
whose  premises  there  is  an  equal  portion  of  truth. 
This  is  he  who  says,  that  an  average  man,  even  an 
average  member  of  an  aristocracy,  if  he  can  postpone 
the  interests  of  other  people  to  his  own  calculations  or 
instincts  of  self-interest,  will  do  so ; that  all  govern- 
ments in  all  ages  have  done  so,  as  far  as  they  were 
permitted,  and  generally  to  a ruinous  extent ; and  that 
the  only  possible  remedy  is  a pure  democracy,  in  which 
the  people  are  their  own  governors,  and  can  have  no 
selfish  interest  in  oppressing  themselves. 

Thus  it  is  in  regard  to  every  important  partial 
truth  ; there  are  always  two  conflicting  modes  of 
thought,  one  tending  to  give  to  that  truth  too  large, 
the  other  to  give  it  too  small,  a place : and  the  history 
of  opinion  is  generally  an  oscillation  between  these 
extremes.  From  the  imperfection  of  the  human 
faculties,  it  seldom  happens  that,  even  in  the  minds  of 
eminent  thinkers,  each  partial  view  of  their  subject 
passes  for  its  worth,  and  none  for  more  than  its  worth. 
But  even  if  this  just  balance  exist  in  the  mind  of  the 
wiser  teacher,  it  will  not  exist  in  his  disciples,  much 
less  in  the  general  mind.  He  cannot  prevent  that 
which  is  new  in  his  doctrine,  and  on  which,  being  new, 
he  is  forced  to  insist  the  most  strongly,  from  making 


330 


COLERIDGE 


1 


a disproportionate  impression.  The  impetus  necessary 
to  overcome  the  obstacles  which  resist  all  novelties  of 
opinion,  seldom  fails  to  carry  the  public  mind  almost 
as  far  on  the  contrary  side  of  the  perpendicular.  Thus 
every  excess  in  either  direction  determines  a corre- 
sponding reaction  ; improvement  consisting  only  in 
this,  that  the  oscillation,  each  time,  departs  rather  less 
widely  from  the  centre,  and  an  ever-increasing  tendency 
is  manifested  to  settle  finally  in  it. 

Now  the  Germano-Coleridgian  doctrine  is,  in  our 
view  of  the  matter,  the  result  of  such  a reaction.  It 
expresses  the  revolt  of  the  human  mind  against  the 
philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  is  onto- 
logical, because  that  was  experimental ; conservative, 
because  that  was  innovative ; religious,  because  so 
much  of  that  was  infidel ; concrete  and  historical, 
because  that  was  abstract  and  metaphysical ; poetical,  * 
because  that  was  matter-of-fact  and  prosaic.  In  every 
respect  it  flies  off  in  the  contrary  direction  to  its 
predecessor ; yet  faithful  to  the  general  law  of  im- 
provement last  noticed,  it  is  less  extreme  in  its  opposi- 
tion, it  denies  less  of  what  is  true  in  the  doctrine  it 
wars  against,  than  had  been  the  case  in  any  previous 
philosophic  reaction ; and  in  particular,  far  less 
than  when  the  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  century 
triumphed,  and  so  memorably  abused  its  victory,  over 
that  which  preceded  it. 

We  may  begin  our  consideration  of  the  two  systems  l 
either  at  one  extreme  or  the  other ; with  their  highest 
philosophical  generalizations,  or  with  their  practical 
conclusions.  The  former  seems  preferable,  because 
it  is  in  their  highest  generalities  that  the  difference 
between  the  two  systems  is  most  familiarly  known. 

Every  consistent  scheme  of  philosophy  requires  as 
its  starting-point,  a theory  respecting  the  sources  of 
human  knowledge,  and  the  objects  which  the  human 
faculties  are  capable  of  taking  cognizance  of.  The 
prevailing  theory  in  the  eighteenth  century,  on  this 
most  comprehensive  of  questions,  was  that  proclaimed 


COLERIDGE 


381 


by  Locke,  and  commonly  attributed  to  Aristotle — 
that  all  knowledge  consists  of  generalizations  from 
experience.  Of  nature,  or  anything  whatever  external 
to  ourselves,  we  know,  according  to  this  theory, 
nothing,  except  the  facts  which  present  themselves 
'to  our  senses,  and  such  other  facts  as  may,  by  analogy, 
be  inferred  from  these.  There  is  no  knowledge  a 
priori;  no  truths  cognizable  by  the  mind’s  inward 
light,  and  grounded  on  intuitive  evidence.  Sensation, 
and  the  mind’s  consciousness  of  its  own  acts,  are 
not  only  the  exclusive  sources,  but  the  sole  materials 
of  our  knowledge.  From  this  doctrine,  Coleridge, 
with  the  German  philosophers  since  Kant  (not  to  go 
farther  back)  and  most  of  the  English  since  Reid, 
strongly  dissents.  He  claims  for  the  human  mind 
a capacity,  within  certain  limits,  of  perceiving  the 
nature  and  properties  of  “ Things  in  themselves.”  He 
distinguishes  in  the  human  intellect  two  faculties, 
which,  in  the  technical  language  common  to  him  with 
the  Germans,  he  calls  Understanding  and  Reason. 
The  former  faculty  judges  of  phenomena,  or  the 
appearances  of  things,  and  forms  generalizations  from 
these  : to  the  latter  it  belongs,  by  direct  intuition,  to 
perceive  things,  and  recognise  truths,  not  cognizable 
by  our  senses.  These  perceptions  are  not  indeed 
innate,  nor  could  ever  have  been  awakened  in  us 
without  experience  ; but  they  are  not  copies  of  it : 
experience  is  not  their  prototype,  it  is  only  the  occasion 
by  which  they  are  irresistibly  suggested.  The  appear- 
ances in  nature  excite  in  us,  by  an  inherent  law,  ideas 
of  those  invisible  things  which  are  the  causes  of  the 
visible  appearances,  and  on  whose  laws  those  appear- 
ances depend  : and  we  then  perceive  that  these  things 
must  have  pre-existed  to  render  the  appearances 
possible ; just  as  (to  use  a frequent  illustration  of 
Coleridge’s)  we  see,  before  we  know  that  we  have  eyes; 
but  when  once  this  is  known  to  us,  we  perceive 
that  eyes  must  have  pre-existed  to  enable  us  to  see. 
Among  the  truths  which  are  thus  known  a priori , by 
occasion  of  experience,  but  not  themselves  the  subjects 


332 


COLEBIDGE 


of  experience,  Coleridge  includes  the  fundamental 
doctrines  of  religion  and  morals,  the  principles  of 
mathematics,  and  the  ultimate  laws  even  of  physical 
nature;  which  he  contends  cannot  be  proved  by 
experience,  though  they  must  necessarily  be  consistent 
with  it,  and  would,  if  we  knew  them  perfectly,  enable 
us  to  account  for  all  observed  facts,  and  to  predict  all 
those  which  are  as  yet  unobserved. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  remind  anyone  who  concerns 
himself  with  such  subjects,  that  between  the  partisans 
of  these  two  opposite  doctrines  there  reigns  a helium 
internecinum . Neither  side  is  sparing  in  the  imputa- 
tion of  intellectual  and  moral  obliquity  to  the  percep- 
tions, and  of  pernicious  consequences  to  the  creed,  of 
its  antagonists.  Sensualism  is  the  common  term  of 
abuse  for  the  one  philosophy,  mysticism  for  the  other. 
The  one  doctrine  is  accused  of  making  men  beasts, 
the  other  lunatics.  It  is  the  unaffected  belief  of 
numbers  on  one  side  of  the  controversy,  that  their 
adversaries  are  actuated  by  a desire  to  break  loose 
from  moral  and  religious  obligation  ; and  of  numbers 
on  the  other  that  their  opponents  are  either  men  fit 
for  Bedlam,  or  who  cunningly  pander  to  the  interests 
of  hierarchies  and  aristocracies,  by  manufacturing 
superfine  new  arguments  in  favour  of  old  prejudices. 
It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  those  who  are  freest 
with  these  mutual  accusations,  are  seldom  those  who 
are  most  at  home  in  the  real  intricacies  of  the  question, 
or  who  are  best  acquainted  with  the  argumentative 
strength  of  the  opposite  side,  or  even  of  their  own. 
But  without  going  to  these  extreme  lengths,  even 
sober  men  on  both  sides  take  no  charitable  view  of 
the  tendencies  of  each  other’s  opinions. 

It  is  affirmed  that  the  doctrine  of  Locke  and  his 
followers,  that  all  knowledge  is  experience  generalized, 
leads  by  strict  logical  consequence  to  atheism  : that 
Hume  and  other  sceptics  were  right  when  they  con- 
tended that  it  is  impossible  to  prove  a God  on  grounds 
of  experience ; and  Coleridge  (like  Kant)  maintains 
positively,  that  the  ordinary  argument  for  a Deity, 


COLEEIDGE 


333 


from  marks  of  design  in  the  universe,  or,  in  other 
words,  from  the  resemblance  of  the  order  in  nature 
to  the  effects  of  human  skill  and  contrivance,  is  not 
tenable.  It  is  further  said  that  the  same  doctrine 
annihilates  moral  obligation ; reducing  morality  either 
to  the  blind  impulses  of  animal  sensibility,  or  to  a 
calculation  of  prudential  consequences,  both  equally 
fatal  to  its  essence.  Even  science,  it  is  affirmed,  loses 
the  character  of  science  in  this  view  of  it,  and  becomes 
empiricism  ; a mere  enumeration  and  arrangement  of 
facts,  not  explaining  nor  accounting  for  them  : since  a 
fact  is  only  then  accounted  for,  when  we  are  made  to 
see  in  it  the  manifestation  of  laws,  which,  as  soon  as 
they  are  perceived  at  all,  are  perceived  to  be  necessary. 
These  are  the  charges  brought  by  the  transcendental 
philosophers  against  the  school  of  Locke,  Hartley,  and 
Bentham.  They  in  their  turn  allege  that  the  trans- 
cendentalists  make  imagination,  and  not  observation, 
the  criterion  of  truth  ; that  they  lay  down  principles 
under  which  a man  may  enthrone  his  wildest  dreams 
in  the  chair  of  philosophy,  and  impose  them  on  man- 
kind as  intuitions  of  the  pure  reason;  which  has,  in 
fact,  been  done  in  all  ages,  by  all  manner  of  mystical 
enthusiasts.  And  even  if,  with  gross  inconsistency, 
the  private  revelations  of  any  individual  Behmen  or 
Swedenborg  be  disowned,  or,  in  other  words,  outvoted 
(the  only  means  of  discrimination  which,  it  is  con- 
tended, the  theory  admits  of),  this  is  still  only  substi- 
tuting, as  the  test  of  truth,  the  dreams  of  the  majority 
for  the  dreams  of  each  individual.  Whoever  form  a 
strong  enough  party,  may  at  any  time  set  up  the 
immediate  perceptions  of  their  reason,  that  is  to  say, 
any  reigning  prejudice,  as  a truth  independent  of  ex- 
perience ; a truth  not  only  requiring  no  proof,  but  to 
be  believed  in  opposition  to  all  that  appears  proof  to 
the  mere  understanding  ; nay,  the  more  to  be  believed, 
because  it  cannot  be  put  into  words  and  into  the  logical 
form  of  a proposition  without  a contradiction  in  terms : 
for  no  less  authority  than  this  is  claimed  by  some 
transcendentalists  for  their  a priori  truths.  And  thus 


334 


COLERIDGE 


a ready  mode  is  provided,  by  which  whoever  is  on  the 
strongest  side  may  dogmatize  at  his  ease,  and  instead 
of  proving  his  propositions,  may  rail  at  all  who  deny 
them,  as  bereft  of  “ the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine,’5 
or  blinded  to  its  plainest  revelations  by  a corrupt  heart. 

This  is  a very  temperate  statement  of  what  is 
charged  by  these  two  classes  of  thinkers  against  each 
other.  How  much  of  either  representation  is  correct, 
cannot  conveniently  be  discussed  in  this  place.  In 
truth,  a system  of  consequences  from  an  opinion, 
drawn  by  an  adversary,  is  seldom  of  much  worth. 
Disputants  are  rarely  sufficiently  masters  of  each 
other’s  doctrines,  to  be  good  judges  what  is  fairly 
deducible  from  them,  or  how  a consequence  which 
seems  to  flow  from  one  part  of  the  theory  may  or  may 
not  be  defeated  by  another  part.  To  combine  the 
different  parts  of  a doctrine  with  one  another,  and  with 
all  admitted  truths,  is  not  indeed  a small  trouble,  nor 
one  which  a person  is  often  inclined  to  take  for  other 
people’s  opinions.  Enough  if  each  does  it  for  his  own, 
which  he  has  a greater  interest  in,  and  is  more  dis- 
posed to  be  just  to.  Were  we  to  search  among  men’s 
recorded  thoughts  for  the  choicest  manifestations  of 
human  imbecility  and  prejudice,  our  specimens  would 
be  mostly  taken  from  their  opinions  of  the  opinions 
of  one  another.  Imputations  of  horrid  consequences 
ought  not  to  bias  the  judgment  of  any  person  capable 
of  independent  thought.  Coleridge  himself  says  (in 
the  25th  Aphorism  of  his  Aids  to  Reflection),  “He 
who  begins  by  loving  Christianity  better  than  truth, 
will  proceed  by  loving  his  own  sect  or  church  better 
than  Christianity,  and  end  in  loving  himself  better 
than  all.” 

As  to  the  fundamental  difference  of  opinion  re- 
specting the  sources  of  our  knowledge  (apart  from  the 
corollaries  which  either  party  may  have  drawn  from 
its  own  principle,  or  imputed  to  its  opponent’s),  the 
question  lies  far  too  deep  in  the  recesses  of  psychology 
for  us  to  discuss  it  here.  The  lists  having  been  open 
ever  since  the  dawn  of  philosophy,  it  is  not  wonderful 


COLERIDGE 


835 


that  the  two  parties  should  have  been  forced  to  put  on 
their  strongest  armour,  both  of  attack  and  of  defence. 
The  question  would  not  so  long  have  remained  a 
question,  if  the  more  obvious  arguments  on  either  side 
had  been  unanswerable.  Each  party  has  been  able  to 
urge  in  its  own  favour  numerous  and  striking  facts,  to 
reconcile  wThich  with  the  opposite  theory  has  required 
all  the  metaphysical  resources  which  that  theory  could 
command.  It  will  not  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  we 
here  content  ourselves  with  a bare  statement  of  our 
opinion.  It  is,  that  the  truth,  on  this  much- debated 
question,  lies  with  the  school  of  Locke  and  of  Bentham. 
The  nature  and  laws  of  Things  in  themselves,  or  of 
the  hidden  causes  of  the  phenomena  which  are  the 
objects  of  experience,  appear  to  us  radically  inacces- 
sible to  the  human  faculties.  We  see  no  ground  for 
believing  that  anything  can  be  the  object  of  our  know- 
ledge except  our  experience,  and  what  can  be  inferred 
from  our  experience  by  the  analogies  of  experience 
itself ; nor  that  there  is  any  idea,  feeling,  or  power  in 
the  human  mind,  which,  in  order  to  account  for  it, 
requires  that  its  origin  should  be  referred  to  any  other 
source.  We  are  therefore  at  issue  with  Coleridge  on 
the  central  idea  of  his  philosophy ; and  we  find  no  need 
of,  and  no  use  for,  the  peculiar  technical  terminology 
which  he  and  his  masters  the  Germans  have  intro- 
duced into  philosophy,  for  the  double  purpose  of  giving 
logical  precision  to  doctrines  which  we  do  not  admit, 
and  of  marking  a relation  between  those  abstract  doc- 
trines and  many  concrete  experimental  truths,  which 
this  language,  in  our  judgment,  serves  not  to  elucidate, 
but  to  disguise  and  obscure.  Indeed,  but  for  these 
peculiarities  of  language,  it  would  be  difficult  to  under- 
stand how  the  reproach  of  mysticism  (by  which  nothing 
is  meant  in  common  parlance  but  unintelligibleness) 
has  been  fixed  upon  Coleridge  and  the  Germans  in  the 
minds  of  many,  to  whom  doctrines  substantially  the 
same,  when  taught  in  a manner  more  superficial  and 
less  fenced  round  against  objections,  by  Reid  and 
Dugald  Stewart,  have  appeared  the  plain  dictates  of 


336 


COLERIDGE 


“ common  sense,”  successfully  asserted  against  the 
subtleties  of  metaphysics. 

Yet,  though  we  think  the  doctrines  of  Coleridge  and 
the  Germans,  in  the  pure  science  of  mind,  erroneous, 
and  have  no  taste  for  their  peculiar  terminology,  we 
are  far  from  thinking  that  even  in  respect  of  this,  the 
least  valuable  part  of  their  intellectual  exertions,  those 
philosophers  have  lived  in  vain.  The  doctrines  of  the 
school  of  Locke  stood  in  need  of  an  entire  renovation : 
to  borrow  a physiological  illustration  from  Coleridge, 
they  required,  like  certain  secretions  of  the  human 
body,  to  be  reabsorbed  into  the  system  and  secreted 
afresh.  In  what  form  did  that  philosophy  generally 
prevail  throughout  Europe  ? In  that  of  the  shallowest 
set  of  doctrines  which  perhaps  were  ever  passed  off  upon 
a cultivated  age  as  a complete  physiological  system — 
the  ideology  of  Condillac  and  his  school ; a system  which 
affected  to  resolve  all  the  phenomena  of  the  human 
mind  into  sensation,  by  a process  which  essentially  con- 
sisted in  merely  calling  all  states  of  mind,  however 
heterogeneous,  by  that  name  ; a philosophy  now  ac- 
knowledged to  consist  solely  of  a set  of  verbal  general- 
izations, explaining  nothing,  distinguishing  nothing, 
leading  to  nothing.  That  men  should  begin  by  sweep- 
ing this  away,  was  the  first  sign  that  the  age  of 
real  psychology  was  about  to  commence.  In  England 
the  case,  though  different,  was  scarcely  better.  The 
philosophy  of  Locke,  as  a popular  doctrine,  had  re- 
mained nearly  as  it  stood  in  his  own  book  ; which,  as 
its  title  implies,  did  not  pretend  to  give  an  account  of 
any  but  the  intellectual  part  of  our  nature  ; which, 
even  within  that  limited  sphere,  was  but  the  com- 
mencement of  a system,  and  though  its  errors  and 
defects  as  such  have  been  exaggerated  beyond  all  just 
bounds,  it  did  expose  many  vulnerable  points  to  the 
searching  criticism  of  the  new  school.  The  least  im- 
perfect part  of  it,  the  purely  logical  part,  had  almost 
dropped  out  of  sight.  With  respect  to  those  of  Locke’s 
doctrines  which  are  properly  metaphysical;  however 
the  sceptical  part  of  them  may  have  been  followed  up 


COLERIDGE 


337 


by  others,  and  carried  beyond  the  point  at  which  he 
stopped  : the  only  one  of  his  successors  who  attempted, 
and  achieved,  any  considerable  improvement  and  ex- 
tension of  the  analytical  part,  and  thereby  added  any- 
thing to  the  explanation  of  the  human  mind  on  Locke’s 
principles,  was  Hartley.  But  Hartley’s  doctrines,  so  far 
as  they  are  true,  were  so  much  in  advance  of  the  age, 
and  the  way  had  been  so  little  prepared  for  them  by  the 
general  tone  of  thinking  which  yet  prevailed,  even  under 
the  influence  of  Locke’s  writings,  that  the  philosophic 
world  did  not  deem  them  worthy  of  being  attended  to. 
Reid  and  Stewart  were  allowed  to  run  them  down  un- 
contradicted : Brown,  though  a man  of  a kindred  genius, 
had  evidently  never  read  them ; and  but  for  the  acci- 
dent of  their  being  taken  up  by  Priestley,  who  trans- 
mitted them  as  a kind  of  heirloom  to  his  Unitarian 
followers,  the  name  of  Hartley  might  have  perished,  or 
survived  only  as  that  of  a visionary  physician,  the 
author  of  an  exploded  physiological  hypothesis.  It 
perhaps  required  all  the  violence  of  the  assaults  made 
by  Reid  and  the  German  school  upon  Locke’s  system, 
to  recall  men’s  minds  to  Hartley’s  principles,  as  alone 
adequate  to  the  solution,  upon  that  system,  of  the 
peculiar  difficulties  which  those  assailants  pressed  upon 
men’s  attention  as  altogether  insoluble  by  it.  We  may 
here  notice  that  Coleridge,  before  he  adopted  his  later 
philosophical  views,  was  an  enthusiastic  Hartleian  ; so 
that  his  abandonment  of  the  philosophy  of  Locke  can- 
not be  imputed  to  unacquaintance  with  the  highest  form 
of  that  philosophy  which  had  yet  appeared.  That  he 
should  pass  through  that  highest  form  without  stopping 
at  it,  is  itself  a strong  presumption  that  there  were 
more  difficulties  in  the  question  than  Hartley  had 
solved.  That  anything  has  since  been  done  to  solve 
them  we  probably  owe  to  the  revolution  in  opinion,  of 
which  Coleridge  was  one  of  the  organs  ; and  even  in 
abstract  metaphysics,  his  writings,  and  those  of  his 
school  of  thinkers,  are  the  richest  mine  from  whence 
the  opposite  school  can  draw  the  materials  for  what 
has  yet  to  be  done  to  perfect  their  own  theory. 

22 


338 


COLERIDGE 


If  we  now  pass  from  the  purely  abstract  to  the  con- 
crete and  practical  doctrines  of  the  two  schools,  we 
shall  see  still  more  clearly  the  necessity  of  the  reaction, 
and  the  great  service  rendered  to  philosophy  by  its 
authors.  This  will  be  best  manifested  by  a survey  of 
the  state  of  practical  philosophy  in  Europe,  as  Cole- 
ridge and  his  compeers  found  it,  towards  the  close  of 
the  last  century. 

The  state  of  opinion  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century  was  by  no  means  the  same  on  the 
Continent  of  Europe  and  in  our  own  island ; and  the 
difference  was  still  greater  in  appearance  than  it  was 
in  reality.  In  the  more  advanced  nations  of  the  Con- 
tinent, the  prevailing  philosophy  had  done  its  work 
completely  : it  had  spread  itself  over  every  department 
of  human  knowledge  ; it  had  taken  possession  of  the 
whole  Continental  mind : and  scarcely  one  educated 
person  was  left  who  retained  any  allegiance  to  the 
opinions  or  the  institutions  of  ancient  times.  In 
England,  the  native  country  of  compromise,  things 
had  stopped  far  short  of  this  ; the  philosophical  move- 
ment had  been  brought  to  a halt  in  an  early  stage,  and 
a peace  had  been  patched  up  by  concessions  on  both 
sides,  between  the  philosophy  of  the  time  and  its 
traditional  institutions  and  creeds.  Hence  the  aberra- 
tions of  the  age  were  generally,  on  the  Continent,  at 
that  period,  the  extravagances  of  new  opinions  ; in 
England,  the  corruptions  of  old  ones. 

To  insist  upon  the  deficiencies  of  the  Continental 
philosophy  of  the  last  century,  or,  as  it  is  commonly 
termed,  the  French  philosophy,  is  almost  superfluous. 
That  philosophy  is  indeed  as  unpopular  in  this  country 
as  its  bitterest  enemy  could  desire.  If  its  faults  were 
as  well  understood  as  they  are  much  railed  at,  criticism 
might  be  considered  to  have  finished  its  work.  But  that 
this  is  not  yet  the  case,  the  nature  of  the  imputations 
currently  made  upon  the  French  philosophers,  suffi- 
ciently proves  ; many  of  these  being  as  inconsistent 
with  a just  philosophic  comprehension  of  their  system 
of  opinions,  as  with  charity  towards  the  men  them- 


COLERIDGE 


839 


selves.  It  is  not  true,  for  example,  that  any  of  them 
denied  moral  obligation,  or  sought  to  weaken  its  force. 
So  far  were  they  from  meriting  this  accusation,  that 
they  could  not  even  tolerate  the  writers  who,  like 
Helvetius,  ascribed  a selfish  origin  to  the  feelings  of 
morality,  resolving  them  into  a sense  of  interest. 
Those  writers  were  as  much  cried  down  among  the 
philo sophes  themselves,  and  what  was  true  and  good 
in  them  (and  there  is  much  that  is  so)  met  with  as 
little  appreciation,  then  as  now.  The  error  of  the 
philosophers  was  rather  that  they  trusted  too  much  to 
those  feelings  ; believed  them  to  be  more  deeply  rooted 
in  human  nature  than  they  are  ; to  be  not  so  dependent, 
as  in  fact  they  are,  upon  collateral  influences.  They 
thought  them  the  natural  and  spontaneous  growth  of 
the  human  heart ; so  firmly  fixed  in  it,  that  they  would 
subsist  unimpaired,  nay  invigorated,  when  the  whole 
system  of  opinions  and  observances  with  which  they 
were  habitually  intertwined  was  violently  torn  away. 

To  tear  away  was,  indeed,  all  that  these  philosophers, 
for  the  most  part,  aimed  at ; they  had  no  conception 
that  anything  else  was  needful.  At  their  millennium, 
superstition,  priestcraft,  error  and  prejudice  of  every 
kind,  were  to  be  annihilated  ; some  of  them  gradually 
added  that  despotism  and  hereditary  privileges  must 
share  the  same  fate ; and,  this  accomplished,  they 
never  for  a moment  suspected  that  all  the  virtues  and 
graces  of  humanity  could  fail  to  flourish,  or  that  when 
the  noxious  weeds  were  once  rooted  out,  the  soil  would 
stand  in  any  need  of  tillage. 

In  this  they  committed  the  very  common  error,  of 
mistaking  the  state  of  things  with  which  they  had 
always  been  familiar,  for  the  universal  and  natural 
condition  of  mankind.  They  were  accustomed  to  see 
the  human  race  agglomerated  in  large  nations,  all 
(except  here  and  there  a madman  or  a malefactor) 
yielding  obedience  more  or  less  strict  to  a set  of  laws 
prescribed  by  a few  of  their  own  number,  and  to  a set 
of  moral  rules  prescribed  by  each  other’s  opinion;  re- 
nouncing the  exercise  of  individual  will  and  judgment, 

22—2 


340 


COLERIDGE 


except  within  the  limits  imposed  by  these  laws  and 
rules ; and  acquiescing  in  the  sacrifice  of  their  individual 
wishes  when  the  point  was  decided  against  them  by 
lawful  authority  ; or  persevering  only  in  hopes  of  alter- 
ing the  opinion  of  the  ruling  powers.  Finding  matters 
to  be  so  generally  in  this  condition,  the  philosophers 
apparently  concluded  that  they  could  not  possibly  be  in 
any  other ; and  were  ignorant,  by  what  a host  of 
civilizing  and  restraining  influences  a state  of  things  so 
repugnant  to  man’s  self-will  and  love  of  independence 
has  been  brought  about,  and  how  imperatively  it 
demands  the  continuance  of  those  influences  as  the 
condition  of  its  own  existence.  The  very  first  element 
of  the  social  union,  obedience  to  a government  of  some 
sort,  has  not  been  found  so  easy  a thing  to  establish  in 
the  world.  Among  a timid  and  spiritless  race,  like  the 
inhabitants  of  the  vast  plains  of  tropical  countries,  5 
passive  obedience  may  be  of  natural  growth ; though 
even  there  we  doubt  whether  it  has  ever  been  found 
among  any  people  with  whom  fatalism,  or  in  other  * 
words,  submission  to  the  pressure  of  circumstances  as 
the  decree  of  God,  did  not  prevail  as  a religious 
doctrine.  But  the  difficulty  of  inducing  a brave  and 
warlike  race  to  submit  their  individual  ctvbitvium  to 
any  common  umpire,  has  always  been  felt  to  be  so  ; 
great,  that  nothing  short  of  supernatural  power  has 
been  deemed  adequate  to  overcome  it ; and.  such  tribes 
have  always  assigned  to  the  first  institution  of  civil  ; 
society  a divine  origin.  So  differently,  did  those  judge 
who  knew  savage  man  by  actual  experience,  from  those  ‘ 
who  had  no  acquaintance  with  him  except  in  the 
civilized  state.  In  modern  Europe  itself,  after  the  fall' 
of  the  Roman  empire,  to  subdue  the  feudal  anarchy 
and  bring  the  whole  people  of  any  European  nation 
into  subjection  to  government  (although  Christianity 
in  the  most  concentrated  form  of  its  influence  was 
co-operating  in  the  work)  required  thrice  as  many 
centuries  as  have  elapsed  since  that  time. 

Now  if  these  philosophers  had  known  human  nature 
under  any  other  type  than  that  of  their  own  age,  and 


COLERIDGE 


341 


of  the  particular  classes  of  society  among  whom  they 
lived,  it  would  have  occurred  to  them,  that  wherever 
this  habitual  submission  to  law  and  government  has 
been  firmly  and  durably  established,  and  yet  the  vigour 
and  manliness  of  character  which  resisted  its  establish- 
ment have  been  in  any  degree  preserved,  certain 
requisites  have  existed,  certain  conditions  have  been 
fulfilled,  of  which  the  following  may  be  regarded  as  the 
principal. 

First : There  has  existed,  for  all  who  were  accounted 
citizens, — for  all  who  were  not  slaves,  kept  down  by  brute 
force, — a system  of  education , beginning  with  infancy 
and  continued  through  life,  of  which,  whatever  else  it 
might  include,  one  main  and  incessant  ingredient  was 
restraining  discipline.  To  train  the  human  being  in 
the  habit,  and  thence  the  power,  of  subordinating  his 
personal  impulses  and  aims,  to  what  were  considered 
the  ends  of  society;  of  adhering,  against  all  tempta- 
tion, to  the  course  of  conduct  which  those  ends 
prescribed;  of  controlling  in  himself  all  the  feelings 
which  were  liable  to  militate  against  those  ends,  and 
encouraging  all  such  as  tended  towards  them  ; this  was 
the  purpose,  to  which  every  outward  motive  that  the 
authority  directing  the  system  could  command,  and 
every  inward  power  or  principle  which  its  knowledge 
of  human  nature  enabled  it  to  evoke,  were  endeavoured 
to  be  rendered  instrumental.  The  entire  civil  and 
military  policy  of  the  ancient  commonwealths  was  such 
a system  of  training  : in  modern  nations  its  place  has 
been  attempted  to  be  supplied  principally  by  religious 
teaching.  And  whenever  and  in  proportion  as  the 
strictness  of  the  restraining  discipline  was  relaxed,  the 
natural  tendency  of  mankind  to  anarchy  reasserted 
itself;  the  State  became  disorganized  from  within; 
mutual  conflict  for  selfish  ends,  neutralized  the  energies 
which  were  required  to  keep  up  the  contest  against 
natural  causes  of  evil;  and  the  nation,  after  a longer 
or  briefer  interval  of  progressive  decline,  became 
either  the  slave  of  a despotism  or  the  prey  of  a foreign 
invader. 


342 


COLEBIDGE 


The  second  condition  of  permanent  political  society 
has  been  found  to  be,  the  existence,  in  some  form  or 
other,  of  the  feeling  of  allegiance,  or  loyalty.  This 
feeling  may  vary  in  its  objects,  and  is  not  confined  to 
any  particular  form  of  government ; but  whether  in  a 
democracy  or  in  a monarchy,  its  essence  is  always  the 
same;  viz.,  that  there  be  in  the  constitution  of  the 
State  something  which  is  settled,  something  perma- 
nent, and  not  to  be  called  in  question  ; something 
which,  by  general  agreement,  has  a right  to  be  where 
it  is,  and  to  be  secure  against  disturbance,  whatever 
else  may  change.  This  feeling  may  attach  itself,  as 
among  the  Jews  (and  indeed  in  most  of  the  common- 
wealths of  antiquity),  to  a common  God  or  gods,  the 
protectors  and  guardians  of  their  State.  Or  it  may 
attach  itself  to  certain  persons,  who  are  deemed  to  be, 
whether  by  divine  appointment,  by  long  prescription, 
or  by  the  general  recognition  of  their  superior  capacity 
and  worthiness,  the  rightful  guides  and  guardians  of 
the  rest.  Or  it  may  attach  itself  to  laws  ; to  ancient 
liberties,  or  ordinances.  Or  finally  (and  this  is  the 
only  shape  in  which  the  feeling  is  likely  to  exist  here- 
after) it  may  attach  itself  to  the  principles  of  individual 
freedom  and  political  and  social  equality,  as  realized  in 
institutions  which  as  yet  exist  nowhere,  or  exist  only 
in  a rudimentary  state.  But  in  all  political  societies 
which  have  had  a durable  existence,  there  has  been 
some  fixed  point  ; something  which  men  agreed  in 
holding  sacred ; which,  wherever  freedom  of  discus- 
sion was  a recognised  principle,  it  was  of  course  lawful 
to  contest  in  theory,  but  which  no  one  could  either  fear 
or  hope  to  see  shaken  in  practice  ; which,  in  short 
(except  perhaps  during  some  temporary  crisis),  was  in 
the  common  estimation  placed  beyond  discussion.  And 
the  necessity  of  this  may  easily  be  made  evident.  A 
State  never  is,  nor,  until  mankind  are  vastly  improved, 
can  hope  to  be,  for  any  long  time  exempt  from  internal 
dissension  ; for  there  neither  is,  nor  has  ever  been,  any 
state  of  society  in  which  collisions  did  not  occur  between 
the  immediate  interests  and  passions  of  powerful  sec- 


COLERIDGE 


343 


tions  of  the  people.  What,  then,  enables  society  to 
weather  these  storms,  and  pass  through  turbulent 
times  without  any  permanent  weakening  of  the  securi- 
ties for  peaceable  existence  ? Precisely  this — that  how 
ever  important  the  interests  about  which  men  fall  out,^ 
the  conflict  did  not  affect  the  fundamental  principles  of 
the  system  of  social  union  which  happened  to  exist ; 
nor  threaten  large  portions  of  the  community  with  the 
subversion  of  that  on  which  they  had  built  their 
calculations,  and  with  which  their  hopes  and  aims 
had  become  identified.  But  when  the  questioning  of 
these  fundamental  principles  is  (not  the  occasional 
disease,  or  salutary  medicine,  but)  the  habitual  condi- 
tion of  the  body  politic,  and  when  all  the  violent 
animosities  are  called  forth,  which  spring  naturally 
from  such  a situation,  the  State  is  virtually  in  a 
position  of  civil  war ; and  can  never  long  remain  free 
from  it  in  act  and  fact. 

The  third  essential  condition  of  stability  in  political 
society,  is  a strong  and  active  principle  of  cohesion 
among  the  members  of  the  same  community  or  state. 
We  need  scarcely  say  that  we  do  not  mean  nationality, 
in  the  vulgar  sense  of  the  term ; a senseless  antipathy 
to  foreigners  ; an  indifference  to  the  general  welfare 
of  the  human  race,  or  an  unjust  preference  of  the 
supposed  interests  of  our  own  country  ; a cherishing 
of  bad  peculiarities  because  they  are  national;  or  a 
refusal  to  adopt  what  has  been  found  good  by  other 
countries.  We  mean  a principle  of  sympathy,  not  of 
hostility ; of  union,  not  of  separation.  We  mean  a 
feeling  of  common  interest  among  those  who  live 
under  the  same  government,  and  are  contained  within 
the  same  natural  or  historical  boundaries.  We  mean, 
that  one  part  of  the  community  do  not  consider  them- 
selves as  foreigners  with  regard  to  another  part ; that 
they  set  a value  on  their  connexion ; feel  that  they  are 
one  people,  that  their  lot  is  cast  together,  that  evil  to 
any  of  their  fellow-countrymen  is  evil  to  themselves  ; 
and  do  not  desire  selfishly  to  free  themselves  from 
their  share  of  any  common  inconvenience  by  severing 


344 


COLERIDGE 


the  connexion.  How  strong  this  feeling  was  in  those 
ancient  commonwealths  which  attained  any  durable 
greatness,  every  one  knows.  How  happily  Eome,  in 
spite  of  all  her  tyranny,  succeeded  in  establishing  the 
feeling  of  a common  country  among  the  provinces  of 
her  vast  and  divided  empire,  will  appear  when  any 
one  who  has  given  due  attention  to  the  subject  shall 
take  the  trouble  to  point  it  out.*  In  modern  times  the 

* We  are  glad  to  quote  a striking  passage  from  Coleridge 
on  this  very  subject.  He  is  speaking  of  the  misdeeds  of 
England  in  Ireland  ; towards  which  misdeeds  this  Tory,  as  he 
is  called  (for  the  Tories,  who  neglected  him  in  his  lifetime, 
show  no  little  eagerness  to  give  themselves  the  credit  of  his 
name  after  his  death),  entertained  feelings  scarcely  surpassed 
by  those  which  are  excited  by  the  masterly  exposure  for  which 
we  have  recently  been  indebted  to  M.  de  Beaumont. 

“ Let  us  discharge,”  he  says,  “ what  may  well  be  deemed  a 
debt  of  justice  from  every  well-educated  Englishman  to  his 
Roman  Catholic  fellow-subjects  of  the  Sister  Island.  At 
least,  let  us  ourselves  understand  the  true  cause  of  the  evil 
as  it  now  exists.  To  what  and  to  whom  is  the  present  state 
of  Ireland  mainly  to  be  attributed?  This  should  be  the 
question:  and  to  this  I answer  aloud,  that  it  is  mainly  at- 
tributable to  those  who,  during  a period  of  little  less  than  a 
whole  century,  used  as  a substitute  what  Providence  had 
given  into  their  hand  as  an  opportunity ; who  chose  to  con- 
sider as  superseding  the  most  sacred  duty,  a code  of  law, 
which  could  be  excused  only  on  the  plea  that  it  enabled  them 
to  perform  it.  To  the  sloth  and  improvidence,  the  weakness 
and  wickedness,  of  the  gentry,  clergy,  and  governors  of 
Ireland,  who  persevered  in  preferring  intrigue,  violence,  and 
selfish  expatriation  to  a system  of  preventive  and  remedial 
measures,  the  efficacy  of  which  had  been  warranted  for  them 
alike  by  the  whole  provincial  history  of  ancient  Rome,  cui 
jpacare  subactos  summa  erat  sapientia,  and  by  the  happy 
results  of  the  few  exceptions  to  the  contrary  scheme  un- 
happily pursued  by  their  and  our  ancestors. 

“ I can  imagine  no  work  of  genius  that  would  more  appro- 
priately decorate  the  dome  or  wall  of  a Senate-house,  than 
an  abstract  of  Irish  history  from  the  landing  of  Strongbow 
to  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  or  to  a yet  later  period,  embodied 
in  intelligible  emblems — an  allegorical  history-piece  designed 
in  the  spirit  of  a Rubens,  or  a Buonarotti,  and  with  the 
wild  lights,  portentous  shades,  and  saturated  colours  of  a 
Rembrandt,  Caravaggio,  and  Spagnoletti.  To  complete  the 
great  moral  and  political  lesson  by  the  historic  contrast, 


COLEBIDGE 


845 


countries  which  have  had  that  feeling  in  the  strongest 
degree  have  been  the  most  powerful  countries ; England, 
France,  and,  in  proportion  to  their  territory  and 
resources,  Holland  and  Switzerland;  while  England 
in  her  connexion  with  Ireland,  is  one  of  the  most 
signal  examples  of  the  consequences  of  its  absence. 
Every  Italian  knows  why  Italy  is  under  a foreign  yoke  ; 
every  German  knows  what  maintains  despotism  in  the 
Austrian  empire  ; the  evils  of  Spain  flow  as  much 
from  the  absence  of  nationality  among  the  Spaniards 
themselves,  as  from  the  presence  of  it  in  their  relations 
with  foreigners  ; while  the  completest  illustration  of  all 
is  afforded  by  the  republics  of  South  America,  where 
the  parts  of  one  and  the  same  state  adhere  so  slightly 
together,  that  no  sooner  does  any  province  think  itself 
aggrieved  by  the  general  government,  than  it  proclaims 
itself  a separate  nation. 

These  essential  requisites  of  civil  society  the  French 
philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century  unfortunately 
overlooked.  They  found,  indeed,  all  three — at  least 
the  first  and  second,  and  most  of  what  nourishes  and 
invigorates  the  third  — already  undermined  by  the 


nothiDg  more  would  be  required  than  by  some  equally 
effective  means  to  possess  the  mind  of  the  spectator  with  the 
state  and  condition  of  ancient  Spain,  at  less  than  half  a century 
from  the  final  conclusion  of  an  obstinate  and  almost  unremit- 
ting conflict  of  two  hundred  years  by  Agrippa’s  subjugation 
of  the  Cantabrians,  omnibus  Hispanice  populis  devictis  et 
pacatis.  At  the  breaking  up  of  the  Empire  the  West  Goths 
conquered  the  country,  and  made  division  of  the  lands.  Then 
come  eight  centuries  of  Moorish  domination.  Yet  so  deeply 
had  Roman  wisdom  impressed  the  fairest  characters  of  the 
Roman  mind,  that  at  this  very  hour,  if  we  except  a com- 
paratively insignificant  portion  of  Arabic  derivatives,  the 
natives  throughout  the  whole  Peninsula  speak  a language  less 
differing  from  the  Romana  rustica , or  provincial  Latin  of 
the  times  of  Lucan  and  Seneca,  than  any  two  of  its  dialects 
from  each  other.  The  time  approaches,  I trust,  when  our 
political  economists  may  study  the  science  of  the  provincial 
policy  of  the  ancients  in  detail,  under  the  auspices  of  hope, 
for  immediate  and  practical  purposes.” — Church  and  State , 

p.  161. 


346 


COLERIDGE 


vices  of  the  institutions,  and  of  the  men,  that  were 
set  up  as  the  guardians  and  bulwarks  of  them.  If 
innovators,  in  their  theories,  disregarded  the  elemen- 
tary principles  of  the  social  union,  Conservatives,  in 
their  practice,  had  set  the  first  example.  The  existing 
order  of  things  had  ceased  to  realize  those  first  prin- 
ciples : from  the  force  of  circumstances,  and  from  the 
short-sighted  selfishness  of  its  administrators,  it  had 
ceased  to  possess  the  essential  conditions  of  permanent 
society,  and  was  therefore  tottering  to  its  fall.  But 
the  philosophers  did  not  see  this.  Bad  as  the  existing 
system  was  in  the  days  of  its  decrepitude,  according  to 
them  it  was  still  worse  when  it  actually  did  what  it 
now  only  pretended  to  do.  Instead  of  feeling  that  the 
effect  of  a bad  social  order  in  sapping  the  necessary 
foundations  of  society  itself,  is  one  of  the  worst  of  its 
many  mischiefs,  the  philosophers  saw  only,  and  saw 
with  joy,  that  it  was  sapping  its  own  foundations.  In 
the  weakening  of  all  government  they  saw  only  the 
weakening  of  bad  government ; and  thought  they  could 
not  better  employ  themselves  than  in  finishing  the  task 
so  well  begun — in  discrediting  all  that  still  remained 
of  restraining  discipline,  because  it  rested  on  the  ancient 
and  decayed  creeds  against  which  they  made  war;  in 
unsettling  everything  which  was  still  considered  settled, 
making  men  doubtful  of  the  few  things  of  which  they 
still  felt  certain ; and  in  uprooting  what  little  remained 
in  the  people’s  minds  of  reverence  for  anything  above 
them,  of  respect  to  any  of  the  limits  which  custom  and 
prescription  had  set  to  the  indulgence  of  each  man’s 
fancies  or  inclinations,  or  of  attachment  to  any  of  the 
things  which  belonged  to  them  as  a nation,  and  which 
made  them  feel  their  unity  as  such. 

Much  of  all  this  was,  no  doubt,  unavoidable,  and  not 
justly  matter  of  blame.  When  the  vices  of  all  con- 
stituted authorities,  added  to  natural  causes  of  decay, 
have  eaten  the  heart  out  of  old  institutions  and  beliefs, 
while  at  the  same  time  the  growth  of  knowledge,  and 
the  altered  circumstances  of  the  age,  would  have  re- 
quired institutions  and  creeds  different  from  these  even 


COLERIDGE 


347 


if  they  had  remained  uncorrupt,  we  are  far  from  saying 
that  any  degree  of  wisdom  on  the  part  of  speculative 
thinkers  could  avert  the  political  catastrophes,  and  the 
subsequent  moral  anarchy  and  unsettledness,  which 
we  have  witnessed  and  are  witnessing.  Still  less  do 
we  pretend  that  those  principles  and  influences  which 
we  have  spoken  of  as  the  conditions  of  the  permanent 
existence  of  the  social  union,  once  lost,  can  ever  be,  or 
should  be  attempted  to  be,  revived  in  connexion  with 
the  same  institutions  or  the  same  doctrines  as  before. 
When  society  requires  to  be  rebuilt,  there  is  no  use  in 
attempting  to  rebuild  it  on  the  old  plan.  By  the  union 
of  the  enlarged  views  and  analytic  powers  of  speculative 
men  with  the  observation  and  contriving  sagacity  of 
men  of  practice,  better  institutions  and  better  doctrines 
must  be  elaborated ; and  until  this  is  done  we  cannot 
hope  for  much  improvement  in  our  present  condition. 
The  effort  to  do  it  in  the  eighteenth  century  would 
have  been  premature,  as  the  attempts  of  the  Econo- 
mistes  (who,  of  all  persons  then  living,  came  nearest 
to  it,  and  who  were  the  first  to  form  clearly  the  idea  of 
a Social  Science),  sufficiently  testify.  The  time  was 
not  ripe  for  doing  effectually  any  other  work  than  that 
of  destruction.  But  the  work  of  the  day  should  have 
been  so  performed  as  not  to  impede  that  of  the  morrow. 
No  one  can  calculate  what  struggles,  which  the  cause 
of  improvement  has  yet  to  undergo,  might  have  been 
spared  if  the  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century 
had  done  anything  like  justice  to  the  Past.  Their  mis- 
take was,  that  they  did  not  acknowledge  the  historical 
value  of  much  which  had  ceased  to  be  useful,  nor  saw 
that  institutions  and  creeds,  now  effete,  had  rendered 
essential  services  to  civilization,  and  still  filled  a place 
in  the  human  mind,  and  in  the  arrangements  of  society, 
which  could  not  without  great  peril  be  left  vacant.  ■ 
Their  mistake  was,  that  they  did  not  recognise  in 
many  of  the  errors  which  they  assailed,  corruptions  of 
important  truths,  and  in  many  of  the  institutions  most 
cankered  with  abuse,  necessary  elements  of  civilized 
society,  though  in  a form  and  vesture  no  longer  suited 


348 


COLERIDGE 


to  the  age ; and  hence  they  involved,  as  far  as  in  them 
lay,  many  great  truths  in  a common  discredit  with  the 
errors  which  had  grown  up  around  them.  They  threw 
away  the  shell  without  preserving  the  kernel ; and 
attempting  to  new-model  society  without  the  binding 
forces  which  hold  society  together,  met  with  such  suc- 
cess as  might  have  been  anticipated. 

Now  we  claim,  in  behalf  of  the  philosophers  of  the 
reactionary  school — of  the  school  to  which  Coleridge 
belongs — that  exactly  what  we  blame  the  philosophers 
of  the  eighteenth  century  for  not  doing,  they  have  done. 

Every  reaction  in  opinion,  of  course  brings  into  view 
that  portion  of  the  truth  which  was  overlooked  before. 
It  was  natural  that  a philosophy  which  anathematized 
all  that  had  been  going  on  in  Europe  from  Constantine 
to  Luther,  or  even  to  Voltaire,  should  be  succeeded  by 
another,  at  once  a severe  critic  of  the  new  tendencies 
of  society,  and  an  impassioned  vindicator  of  what  was 
good  in  the  past.  This  is  the  easy  merit  of  all  Tory 
and  Royalist  writers.  But  the  peculiarity  of  the 
Germano-Coleridgian  school  is,  that  they  saw  beyond 
the  immediate  controversy,  to  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples involved  in  all  such  controversies.  They  were 
the  first  (except  a solitary  thinker  here  and  there)  who 
inquired  with  any  comprehensiveness  or  depth,  into 
the  inductive  laws  of  the  existence  and  growth  of 
human  society.  They  were  the  first  to  bring  pro- 
minently forward  the  three  requisites  which  we  have 
enumerated,  as  essential  principles  of  all  permanent 
forms  of  social  existence ; as  principles,  we  say,  and 
not  as  mere  accidental  advantages  inherent  in  the 
particular  polity  or  religion  which  the  writer  happened 
to  patronize.  They  were  the  first  who  pursued,  philo- 
sophically and  in  the  spirit  of  Baconian  investigation, 
not  only  this  inquiry,  but  others  ulterior  and  collateral 
to  it.  They  thus  produced,  not  a piece  of  party  ad- 
vocacy, but  a philosophy  of  society,  in  the  only  form 
in  which  it  is  yet  possible,  that  of  a philosophy  of 
history ; not  a defence  of  particular  ethical  or  religious 
doctrines,  but  a contribution,  the  largest  made  by  any 


COLEBIDGE  349 

class  of  thinkers,  towards  the  philosophy  of  human 
culture. 

The  brilliant  light  which  has  been  thrown  upon 
history  during  the  last  half  century,  has  proceeded 
almost  wholly  from  this  school.  The  disrespect  in 
which  history  was  held  by  the  philosophes  is  notorious ; 
one  of  the  soberest  of  them,  D’Alembert  we  believe, 
was  the  author  of  the  wish  that  all  record  whatever 
of  past  events  could  be  blotted  out.  And  indeed  the 
ordinary  mode  of  writing  history,  and  the  ordinary 
mode  of  drawing  lessons  from  it,  were  almost  sufficient 
to  excuse  this  contempt.  But  the  philosophies  saw,  as 
usual,  what  was  not  true,  not  what  was.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  they  who  looked  on  the  greater  part  of 
what  had  been  handed  down  from  the  past,  as  sheer 
hindrances  to  man’s  attaining  a well-being  which  would 
otherwise  be  of  easy  attainment,  should  content  them- 
selves with  a very  superficial  study  of  history.  But 
the  case  was  otherwise  with  those  who  regarded  the 
maintenance  of  society  at  all,  and  especially  its  main- 
tenance in  a state  of  progressive  advancement,  as  a 
very  difficult  task  actually  achieved,  in  however  im- 
perfect a manner,  for  a number  of  centuries,  against 
the  strongest  obstacles.  It  was  natural  that  they 
should  feel  a deep  interest  in  ascertaining  how  this 
had  been  effected ; and  should  be  led  to  inquire,  both 
what  were  the  requisites  of  the  permanent  existence  of 
the  body  politic,  and  what  were  the  conditions  which 
had  rendered  the  preservation  of  these  permanent 
requisites  compatible  with  perpetual  and  progressive 
improvement.  And  hence  that  series  of  great  writers 
and  thinkers,  from  Herder  to  Michelet,  by  whom 
history,  which  was  till  then  “ a tale  told  by  an  idiot, 
full  of  sound  and  fury,  signifying  nothing,”  has  been 
made  a science  of  causes  and  effects ; who,  by  making 
the  facts  and  events  of  the  past  have  a meaning  and 
an  intelligible  place  in  the  gradual  evolution  of 
humanity,  have  at  once  given  history,  even  to  the 
imagination,  an  interest  like  romance,  and  afforded 
the  only  means  of  predicting  and  guiding  the  future, 


350 


COLERIDGE 


by  unfolding  the  agencies  which  have  produced  and 
still  maintain  the  Present.* 

The  same  causes  have  naturally  led  the  same  class 
of  thinkers  to  do  what  their  predecessors  never  could 
have  done,  for  the  philosophy  of  human  culture.  For 
the  tendency  of  their  speculations  compelled  them  to 
see  in  the  character  of  the  national  education  existing 
in  any  political  society,  at  once  the  principal  cause  of 
its  permanence  as  a society,  and  the  chief  source  of 
its  progressiveness  : the  former  by  the  extent  to  which 
that  education  operated  as  a system  of  restraining 
discipline ; the  latter  by  the  degree  in  which  it  called 
forth  and  invigorated  the  active  faculties.  Besides, 
not  to  have  looked  upon  the  culture  of  the  inward 
man  as  the  problem  of  problems,  would  have  been 
incompatible  with  the  belief  which  many  of  these 
philosophers  entertained  in  Christianity,  and  the  recog- 
nition by  all  of  them  of  its  historical  value,  and  the 
prime  part  which  it  has  acted  in  the  progress  of 

* There  is  something  at  once  ridiculous  and  discouraging 
in  the  signs  which  daily  meet  us,  of  the  Cimmerian  darkness 
still  prevailing  in  England  (wherever  recent  foreign  literature 
or  the  speculations  of  the  Coleridgians  have  not  penetrated) 
concerning  the  very  existence  of  the  views  of  general  history, 
wThich  have  b ^en  received  throughout  the  Continent  of  Europe 
for  the  last  I mty  or  thirty  years.  A writer  in  Blackivood’s 
Magazine , certainly  not  the  least  able  publication  of  our  day, 
nor  this  the  least  able  writer  in  it,  lately  announced,  with  all 
the  pomp  and  heraldry  of  triumphant  genius,  a discovery 
which  was  to  disabuse  the  -world  of  a universal  prejudice, 
and  create  “ the  philosophy  of  Roman  history.”  This  is,  that 
the  Roman  empire  perished  not  from  outward  violence,  but 
from  inward  decay  ; and  that  the  barbarian  conquerors  were 
the  renovators,  not  the  destroyers  of  its  civilization.  Why, 
there  is  not  a schoolboy  in  France  or  Germany  wTho  did  not 
possess  this  writer’s  discovery  before  him  ; the  contrary 
opinion  has  receded  so  far  into  the  past,  that  it  must  be 
rather  a learned  Frenchman  or  German  who  remembers  that 
it  was  ever  held.  If  the  writer  in  Blackwood  had  read  a line 
of  Guizot  (to  go  no  further  than  the  most  obvious  sources), 
he  wrould  probably  have  abstained  from  making  himself  very 
ridiculous,  and  his  country,  so  far  as  depends  upon  him,  the 
laughing-stock  of  Europe. 


COLERIDGE 


351 


mankind.  But  here,  too,  let  us  not  fail  to  observe, 
they  rose  to  principles,  and  did  not  stick  in  the  par- 
ticular case.  The  culture  of  the  human  being  had 
been  carried  to  no  ordinary  height,  and  human  nature 
had  exhibited  many  of  its  noblest  manifestations,  not 
in  Christian  countries  only,  but  in  the  ancient  world, 
in  Athens,  Sparta,  Rome ; nay,  even  barbarians,  as 
the  Germans,  or  still  more  unmitigated  savages,  the 
wild  Indians,  and  again  the  Chinese,  the  Egyptians, 
the  Arabs,  all  had  their  own  education,  their  own 
culture ; a culture  which,  whatever  might  be  its  ten- 
dency upon  the  whole,  had  been  successful  in  some 
respect  or  other.  Every  form  of  polity,  every  condition 
of  society,  whatever  else  it  had  done,  had  formed  its 
type  of  national  character.  What  that  type  was,  and 
how  it  had  been  made  what  it  was,  were  questions 
which  the  metaphysician  might  overlook,  the  historical 
philosopher  could  not.  Accordingly,  the  views  re- 
specting the  various  elements  of  human  culture  and 
the  causes  influencing  the  formation  of  national 
character,  which  pervade  the  writings  of  the  Germano- 
Coleridgian  school,  throw  into  the  shade  everything 
which  had  been  effected  before,  or  which  has  been 
attempted  simultaneously  by  any  other  school.  Such 
views  are,  more  than  anything  else,  the  characteristic 
feature  of  the  Goethian  period  of  Germaii'  literature ; 
and  are  richly  diffused  through  the  historical  and 
critical  writings  of  the  new  French  school,  as  well  as 
of  Coleridge  and  his  followers. 

In  this  long,  though  most  compressed,  dissertation 
on  the  Continental  philosophy  preceding  the  reaction, 
and  on  the  nature  of  the  reaction,  so  far  as  directed 
against  that  philosophy,  we  have  unavoidably  been 
led  to  speak  rather  of  the  movement  itself,  than  of 
Coleridge’s  particular  share  in  it ; which,  from  his 
posteriority  in  date,  was  necessarily  a subordinate  one. 
And  it  would  be  useless,  even  did  our  limits  permit,  to 
bring  together  from  the  scattered  writings  of  a man 
who  produced  no  systematic  work,  any  of  the  frag- 


352 


COLERIDGE 


ments  which  he  may  have  contributed  to  an  edifice 
still  incomplete,  and  even  the  general  character  of 
which,  we  can  have  rendered  very  imperfectly  intel- 
ligible to  those  who  are  not  acquainted  with  the 
theory  itself.  Our  object  is  to  invite  to  the  study  of 
the  original  sources,  not  to  supply  the  place  of  such  a 
study.  What  was  peculiar  to  Coleridge  will  be  better 
manifested,  when  we  now  proceed  to  review  the  state 
of  popular  philosophy  immediately  preceding  him  in 
our  own  island ; which  was  different,  in  some  material 
respects,  from  the  contemporaneous  Continental  philo- 
sophy. 

In  England,  the  philosophical  speculations  of  the 
age  had  not,  except  in  a few  highly  metaphysical 
minds  (whose  example  rather  served  to  deter  than 
to  invite  others),  taken  so  audacious  a flight,  nor 
achieved  anything  like  so  complete  a victory  over  the 
counteracting  influences,  as  on  the  Continent.  There 
i$  in  the  English  mind,  both  in  speculation  and  in 
practice,  a highly  salutary  shrinking  from  all  extremes. 
But  as  this  shrinking  is  rather  an  instinct  of  caution 
than  a result  of  insight,  it  is  too  ready  to  satisfy  itself 
with  any  medium,  merely  because  it  is  a medium,  and 
to  acquiesce  in  a union  of  the  disadvantages  of  both 
extremes  instead  of  their  advantages.  The  circum- 
stances of  the  age,  too,  were  unfavourable  to  decided 
opinions.  The  repose  which  followed  the  great 
struggles  of  the  Reformation  and  the  Commonwealth ; 
the  final  victory  over  Popery  and  Puritanism,  Jacob- 
itism  and  Republicanism,  and  the  lulling  of  the  con- 
troversies which  kept  speculation  and  spiritual  con- 
sciousness alive ; the  lethargy  which  came  upon  all 
governors  and  teachers,  after  their  position  in  society 
became  fixed;  and  the  growing  absorption  of  all 
classes  in  material  interests — caused  a state  of  mind 
to  diffuse  itself,  with  less  of  deep  inward  workings, 
and  less  capable  of  interpreting  those  it  had,  than  had 
existed  for  centuries.  The  age  seemed  smitten  with 
an  incapacity  of  producing  deep  or  strong  feeling, 
such  as  at  least  could  ally  itself  with  meditative 


COLERIDGE 


353 


habits.  There  were  few  poets,  and  none  of  a high 
order  ; and  philosophy  fell  mostly  into  the  hands  of 
men  of  a dry  prosaic  nature,  who  had  not  enough  of 
the  materials  of  human  feeling  in  them  to  be  able  to 
imagine  any  of  its  more  complex  and  mysterious 
manifestations  ; all  of  which  they  either  left  out  of 
their  theories,  or  introduced  them  with  such  explana- 
tions as  no  one  who  had  experienced  the  feelings  could 
receive  as  adequate.  An  age  like  this,  an  age  without 
earnestness,  was  the  natural  era  of  compromises  and 
half- convictions. 

To  make  out  a case  for  the  feudal  and  ecclesiastical 
institutions  of  modern  Europe  was  by  no  means  im- 
possible : they  had  a meaning,  had  existed  for  honest 
ends,  and  an  honest  theory  of  them  might  be  made. 
But  the  administration  of  those  institutions  had  long 
ceased  to  accord  with  any  honest  theory.  It  was 
impossible  to  justify  them  in  principle,  except  on 
grounds  which  condemned  them  in  practice ; and 
grounds  of  which  there  was  at  any  rate  little  or  no 
recognition  in  the  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. The  natural  tendency,  therefore,  of  that  philo- 
sophy, everywhere  but  in  England,  was  to  seek  the 
extinction  of  those  institutions.  In  England  it  would 
doubtless  have  done  the  same,  had  it  been  strong 
enough  : but  as  this  was  beyond  its  strength,  an 
adjustment  was  come  to  between  the  rival  powers. 
What  neither  party  cared  about,  the  ends  of  existing 
institutions,  the  work  that  was  to  be  done  by  teachers 
and  governers,  was  flung  overboard.  The  wages  of 
that  work  the  teachers  and  governors  did  care  about, 
and  those  wages  were  secured  to  them.  The  existing 
institutions  in  Church  and  State  were  to  be  pre- 
served inviolate,  in  outward  semblance  at  least,  but 
were  required  to  be,  practically,  as  much  a nullity  as 
possible.  The  Church  continued  to  “ rear  her  mitred 
front  in  courts  and  palaces,”  but  not  as  in  the  days  of 
Hildebrand  or  Becket,  as  the  champion  of  arts  against 
arms,  of  the  serf  against  the  seigneur,  peace  against 
war,  or  spiritual  principles  and  powers  against  the 

23 


354 


COLERIDGE 


domination  of  animal  force.  Nor  even  (as  in  the 
days  of  Latimer  and  John  Knox)  as  a body  divinely 
commissioned  to  train  the  nation  in  a knowledge  of 
God  and  obedience  to  His  laws,  whatever  became  of 
temporal  principalities  and  powers,  and  whether  this 
end  might  most  effectually  be  compassed  by  their 
assistance  or  by  trampling  them  under  foot.  No ; 
but  the  people  of  England  liked  old  things,  and 
nobody  knew  how  the  place  might  be  filled  which  the 
doing  away  with  so  conspicuous  an  institution  would 
leave  vacant,  and  quieta  ne  movere  was  the  favourite 
doctrine  of  those  times ; therefore,  on  condition  of  not 
making  too  much  noise  about  religion,  or  taking  it 
too  much  in  earnest,  the  church  was  supported,  even 
by  philosophers — as  a “ bulwark  against  fanaticism,” 
a sedative  to  the  religious  spirit,  to  prevent  it  from 
disturbing  the  harmony  of  society  or  the  tranquillity 
of  states.  The  clergy  of  the  establishment  thought 
they  had  a good  bargain  on  these  terms,  and  kept  its 
conditions  very  faithfully. 

The  State,  again,  was  no  longer  considered,  accord- 
ing to  the  old  ideal,  as  a concentration  of  the  force  of  all 
the  individuals  of  the  nation  in  the  hands  of  certain 
of  its  members,  in  order  to  the  accomplishment  of 
whatever  could  be  best  accomplished  by  systematic 
co-operation.  It  was  found  that  the  State  was  a 
bad  judge  of  the  wants  of  society  ; that  it  in  reality 
cared  very  little  for  them ; and  when  it  attempted 
anything  beyond  that  police  against  crime,  and  arbitra- 
tion of  disputes,  which  are  indispensable  to  social 
existence,  the  private  sinister  interest  of  some  class  or 
individual  was  usually  the  prompter  of  its  proceedings. 
The  natural  inference  would  have  been  that  the  con- 
stitution of  the  State  was  somehow  not  suited  to  the 
existing  wants  of  society  ; having  indeed  descended, 
with  scarcely  any  modifications  that  could  be  avoided, 
from  a time  when  the  most  prominent  exigencies  of 
society  were  quite  different.  This  conclusion,  how- 
ever, was  shrunk  from ; and  it  required  the  peculiarities 
of  very  recent  times,  and  the  speculations  of  the 


COLERIDGE 


355 


Bentham  school,  to  produce  even  any  considerable 
tendency  that  way.  The  existing  Constitution,  and 
all  the  arrangements  of  existing  society,  continued  to 
be  applauded  as  the  best  possible.  The  celebrated 
theory  of  the  three  powers  was  got  up,  which  made 
the  excellence  of  our  Constitution  consist  in  doing  less 
harm  than  would  be  done  by  any  other  form  of  govern- 
ment. Government  altogether  was  regarded  as  a 
necessary  evil,  and  was  required  to  hide  itself,  to  make 
itself  as  little  felt  as  possible.  The  cry  of  the  people 
was  not  44  help  us,”  44  guide  us,”  44  do  for  us  the  things 
we  cannot  do,  and  instruct  us,  that  we  may  do  well 
those  which  we  can  ” — and  truly  such  requirements 
from  such  rulers  would  have  been  a bitter  jest : the 
cry  was  44  let  us  alone.”  Power  to  decide  questions 
of  meum  and  tuum , to  protect  society  from  open 
violence,  and  from  some  of  the  most  dangerous  modes 
of  fraud,  could  not  be  withheld  ; these  functions  the 
Government  was  left  in  possession  of,  and  to  these  it 
became  the  expectation  of  the  public  that  it  should 
confine  itself. 

Such  was  the  prevailing  tone  of  English  belief  in 
temporals  ; what  was  it  in  spirituals  ? Here  too  a 
similar  system  of  compromise  had  been  at  work. 
Those  who  pushed  their  philosophical  speculations  to 
the  denial  of  the  received  religious  belief,  whether 
they  went  to  the  extent  of  infidelity  or  only  of  hetero- 
doxy, met  with  little  encouragement : neither  religion 
itself,  nor  the  received  forms  of  it,  were  at  all  shaken 
by  the  few  attacks  which  were  made  upon  them  from 
without.  The  philosophy,  however,  of  the  time,  made 
itself  felt  as  effectually  in  another  fashion ; it  pushed 
its  way  into  religion.  The  a priori  arguments  for  a 
God  were  first  dismissed.  This  was  indeed  inevitable. 
The  internal  evidences  of  Christianity  shared  nearly 
the  same  fate  ; if  not  absolutely  thrown  aside,  they 
fell  into  the  background,  and  were  little  thought  of. 
The  doctrine  of  Locke,  that  we  have  no  innate  moral 
sense,  perverted  into  the  doctrine  that  we  have  no 
moral  sense  at  all,  made  it  appear  that  we  had  not 

28—2 


356 


COLEKIDGE 


any  capacity  of  judging  from  the  doctrine  itself, 
whether  it  was  worthy  to  have  come  from  a righteous 
Being.  In  forgetfulness  of  the  most  solemn  warnings 
of  the  Author  of  Christianity,  as  well  as  of  the  Apostle 
who  was  the  main  diffuser  of  it  through  the  world, 
belief  in  his  religion  was  left  to  stand  upon  miracles — 
a species  of  evidence  which,  according  to  the  universal 
belief  of  the  early  Christians  themselves,  was  by  no 
means  peculiar  to  true  religion : and  it  is  melancholy 
to  see  on  what  frail  reeds  able  defenders  of  Christianity 
preferred  to  rest,  rather  than  upon  that  better  evidence 
which  alone  gave  to  their  so-called  evidences  any 
value  as  a collateral  confirmation.  In  the  interpreta- 
tion of  Christianity,  the  palpablest  bibliolatrif  pre- 
vailed : if  (with  Coleridge)  we  may  so  term  that 
superstitious  worship  of  particular  texts,  which  perse- 
cuted Galileo,  and,  in  our  own  day,  anathematized  the 
discoveries  of  geology.  Men  whose  faith  in  Christianity 
rested  on  the  literal  infallibility  of  the  sacred  volume, 
shrank  in  terror  from  the  idea  that  it  could  have  been 
included  in  the  scheme  of  Providence  that  the  human 
opinions  and  mental  habits  of  the  particular  writers 
should  be  allowed  to  mix  with  and  colour  their  mode 
of  conceiving  and  of  narrating  the  divine  transactions. 
Yet  this  slavery  to  the  letter  has  not  only  raised  every 
difficulty  which  envelopes  the  most  unimportant  pas- 
sage in  the  Bible,  into  an  objection  to  revelation,  but  has 
paralyzed  many  a well-meant  effort  to  bring  Chris- 
tianity home,  as  a consistent  scheme,  to  human  ex- 
perience and  capacities  of  apprehension  ; as  if  there 
was  much  of  it  which  it  was  more  prudent  to  leave  in 
nubibus,  lest,  in  the  attempt  to  make  the  mind  seize 
hold  of  it  as  a reality,  some  text  might  be  found  to 
stand  in  the  way.  It  might  have  been  expected  that 
this  idolatry  of  the  words  of  Scripture  would  at  least 
have  saved  its  doctrines  from  being  tampered  with  by 
human  notions  : but  the  contrary  proved  to  be  the 
effect ; for  the  vague  and  sophistical  mode  of  interpret- 
ing texts,  which  was  necessary  in  order  to  reconcile 
what  was  manifestly  irreconcilable,  engendered  a habit 


COLERIDGE 


857 


of  playing  fast  and  loose  with  Scripture,  and  finding  in, 
or  leaving  out  of  it,  whatever  one  pleased.  Hence, 
while  Christianity  was,  in  theory  and  in  intention, 
received  and  submitted  to,  with  even  “prostration  of 
the  understanding  ” before  it,  much  alacrity  was  in 
fact  displayed  in  accommodating  it  to  the  received 
philosophy,  and  even  to  the  popular  notions  of  the 
time.  To  take  only  one  example,  but  so  signal  a one 
as  to  be  instar  omnium . If  there  is  any  one  require- 
ment of  Christianity  less  doubtful  than  another,  it  is 
that  of  being  spiritually-minded ; of  loving  and  prac- 
tising good  from  a pure  love,  simply  because  it  is  good. 
But  one  of  the  crotchets  of  the  philosophy  of  the  age 
was,  that  all  virtue  is  self-interest ; and  accordingly, 
in  the  text-book  adopted  by  the  Church  (in  one  of  its 
universities)  for  instruction  in  moral  philosophy,  the 
reason  for  doing  good  is  declared  to  be,  that  God  is 
stronger  than  we  are,  and  is  able  to  damn  us  if  we  do 
not.  v This  is  no  exaggeration  of  the  sentiments  of 
Paley,  and  hardly  even  of  the  crudity  of  his  language. 

Thus,  on  the  whole,  England  had  neither  the  benefits, 
such  as  they  were,  of  the  new  ideas  nor  of  the  old. 
We  were  just  sufficiently  under  the  influences  of  each 
to  render  the  other  powerless.  We  had  a Govern- 
ment, which  we  respected  too  much  to  attempt  to 
change  it,  but  not  enough  to  trust  it  with  any 
power,  or  look  to  it  for  any  services  that  were  not 
compelled.  We  had  a Church,  which  had  ceased  to 
fulfil  the  honest  purposes  of  a church,  but  which  we 
made  a great  point  of  keeping  up  as  the  pretence  or 
simulacrum  of  one.  We  had  a highly  spiritual  religion 
(which  we  were  instructed  to  obey  from  selfish  motives), 
and  the  most  mechanical  and  worldly  notions  on  every 
other  subject ; and  we  were  so  much  afraid  of  being 
wanting  in  reverence  to  each  particular  syllable  of  the 
book  which  contained  our  religion,  that  we  let  its 
most  important  meanings  slip  through  our  fingers, 
and  entertained  the  most  grovelling  conceptions  of  its 
spirit  and  general  purposes.  This  was  not  a state  of 
things  which  could  recommend  itself  to  any  earnest 


858 


COLERIDGE 


mind.  It  was  sure  in  no  great  length  of  time  to  call 
forth  two  sorts  of  men — the  one  demanding  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  institutions  and  creeds  which  had 
hitherto  existed ; the  other,  that  they  be  made  a 
reality  : the  one  pressing  the  new  doctrines  to  their 
utmost  consequences  ; the  other  reasserting  the  best 
meaning  and  purposes  of  the  old.  The  first  type 
attained  its  greatest  height  in  Bentham ; the  last  in 
Coleridge. 

We  hold  that  these  two  sorts  of  men,  who  seem  to 
be,  and  believe  themselves  to  be,  enemies,  are  in  reality 
allies.  The  powers  they  wield  are  opposite  poles  of  one 
great  force  of  progression.  What  was  really  hateful 
and  contemptible  was  the  state  which  preceded  them, 
and  which  each,  in  its  way,  has  been  striving  now  for 
many  years  to  improve.  Each  ought  to  hail  with  re- 
joicing the  advent  of  the  other.  But  most  of  all  ought 
an  enlightened  Radical  or  Liberal  to  rejoice  over  such 
a Conservative  as  Coleridge.  For  such  a Radical  must 
know,  that  the  Constitution  and  Church  of  England, 
and  the  religious  opinions  and  political  maxims  pro- 
fessed by  their  supporters,  are  not  mere  frauds,  nor 
sheer  nonsense — have  not  been  got  up  originally,  and 
all  along  maintained,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  picking 
people’s  pockets  ; without  aiming  at,  or  being  found 
conducive  to,  any  honest  end  during  the  whole  process. 
Nothing,  of  which  this  is  a sufficient  account,  would 
have  lasted  a tithe  of  five,  eight,  or  ten  centuries,  in 
the  most  improving  period  and  (during  much  of  that 
period)  the  most  improving  nation  in  the  world. 
These  things,  we  may  depend  upon  it,  were  not  always 
without  much  good  in  them,  however  little  of  it  may 
now  be  left : and  Reformers  ought  to  hail  the  man  as 
a brother  Reformer  who  points  out  what  this  good  is ; 
what  it  is  which  we  have  a right  to  expect  from  things 
established — which  they  are  bound  to  do  for  us,  as  the 
justification  of  their  being  established  : so  that  they 
may  be  recalled  to  it  and  compelled  to  do  it,  or  the 
impossibility  of  their  any  longer  doing  it  may  be  con- 
clusively manifested.  What  is  any  case  for  reform 


COLERIDGE 


359 


good  for,  until  it  has  passed  this  test  ? What  mode  is 
there  of  determining  whether  a thing  is  fit  to  exist, 
without  first  considering  what  purposes  it  exists  for, 
and  whether  it  be  still  capable  of  fulfilling  them  ? 

We  have  not  room  here  to  consider  Coleridge’s  Con- 
servative philosophy  in  all  its  aspects,  or  in  relation  to 
all  the  quarters  from  which  objections  might  be  raised 
against  it.  We  shall  consider  it  with  relation  to 
Reformers,  and  especially  to  Benthamites.  We  would 
assist  them  to  determine  whether  they  would  have  to 
do  with  Conservative  philosophers  or  with  Conservative 
dunces;  and  whether,  since  there  are  Tories,  it  be 
better  that  they  should  learn  their  Toryism  from  Lord 
Eldon,  or  even  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or  from  Coleridge. 

Take,  for  instance,  Coleridge’s  view  of  the  grounds 
of  a Church  Establishment.  His  mode  of  treating  any 
institution  is  to  investigate  what  he  terms  the  Idga^of 
it,  or  what  in  common  parlance  would  be  called  the 
principle  involved  in  it.  The  idea  or  principle  of  a 
national  church,  and  of  the  Church  of  England  in  that 
character,  is,  according  to  him,  the  reservation  of  a 
portion  of  the  land,  or  of  a right  to  a portion  of  its 
produce,  as  a fund — for  what  purpose  ? For  the  wor- 
ship of  God  ? For  the  performance  of  religious  cere- 
monies ? No  ; for  the  advancement  of  knowledge, 
and  the  civilization  and  cultivation  of  the  community. 
This  fund  he  does  not  term  Church-property,  but  “ the 
nationalty,”  or  national  property.  He  considers  it  as 
destined  for  “the  support  and  maintenance  of  a per- 
manent class  or  order,  with  the  following  duties.  A 
certain  smaller  number  were  to  remain  at  the  fountain- 
heads of  the  humanities,  in  cultivating  and  enlarging 
the  knowledge  already  possessed,  and  in  watching  over 
the  interests  of  physical  and  moral  science  ; being  like- 
wise the  instructors  of  such  as  constituted,  or  were  to 
constitute,  the  remaining  more  numerous  classes  of  the 
order.  The  members  of  this  latter  and  far  more 
numerous  body  were  to  be  distributed  throughout  the 
country,  so  as  not  to  leave  even  the  smallest  integral 
part  or  division  without  a resident  guide,  guardian, 


360 


COLERIDGE 


and  instructor ; the  objects  and  final  intention  of  the 
whole  order  being  these — to  preserve  the  stores  and 
to  guard  the  treasures  of  past  civilization,  and  thus  to 
bind  the  present  with  the  past ; to  perfect  and  add  to 
the  same,  and  thus  to  connect  the  present  with  the 
future  ; but  especially  to  diffuse  through  the  whole 
community,  and  to  every  native  entitled  to  its  laws 
and  rights,  that  quantity  and  quality  of  knowledge 
which  was  indispensable  both  for  the  understanding 
of  those  rights,  and  for  the  performance  of  the  duties 
correspondent  ; finally,  to  secure  for  the  nation,  if 
not  a superiority  over  the  neighbouring  states,  yet  an 
equality  at  least,  in  that  character  of  general  civiliza- 
tion, which  equally  with,  or  rather  more  than,  fleets, 
armies,  and  revenue,  forms  the  ground  of  its  defensive 
and  offensive  power.” 

This  organized  body,  set  apart  and  endowed  for 
the  cultivation  and  diffusion  of  knowledge,  is  not,  in 
Coleridge’s  view,  necessarily  a religious  corporation. 
“ Religion  may  be  an  indispensable  ally,  but  is  not  the 
essential  constitutive  end,  of  that  national  institute, 
which  is  unfortunately,  at  least  improperly,  styled  the 
Church  ; a name  which,  in  its  best  sense,  is  exclusively 
appropriate  to  the  Church  of  Christ.  . . . The  clerisy 
of  the  nation,  or  national  church  in  its  primary  accepta- 
tion and  original  intention,  comprehended  the  learned 
of  all  denominations,  the  sages  and  professors  of  the 
law  and  jurisprudence,  of  medicine  and  physiology, 
of  music,  of  military  and  civil  architecture,  with  the 
mathematical  as  the  common  organ  of  the  preceding  ; 
in  short,  all  the  so-called  liberal  arts  and  sciences,  the 
possession  and  application  of  which  constitute  the 
civilization  of  a country,  as  well  as  the  theological 
The  last  was,  indeed,  placed  at  the  head  of  all ; and  of 
good  right  did  it  claim  the  precedence.  But  wThy  ? 
Because  under  the  name  of  theology  or  divinity  were 
contained  the  interpretation  of  languages,  the  conserva- 
tion and  tradition  of  past  events,  the  momentous  epochs 
and  revolutions  of  the  race  and  nation,  the  continua- 
tion of  the  records,  logic,  ethics,  and  the  determination 


COLERIDGE 


861 


of  ethical  science,  in  application  to  the  rights  and 
duties  of  men  in  all  their  various  relations,  social  and 
civil ; and  lastly,  the  ground-knowledge,  the  yrima 
scientia , as  it  was  named, — philosophy,  or  the  doctrine 
and  discipline  of  ideas. 

“ Theology  formed  only  a part  of  the  objects,  the 
theologians  formed  only  a portion  of  the  clerks  or 
clergy,  of  the  national  Church.  The  theological  order 
had  precedency  indeed,  and  deservedly ; but  not  be- 
cause its  members  were  priests,  whose  office  was  to 
conciliate  the  invisible  powers,  and  to  superintend  the 
interests  that  survive  the  grave ; nor  as  being  exclu- 
sively, or  even  principally,  sacerdotal  or  templar,  which, 
when  it  did  occur,  is  to  be  considered  as  an  accident  of 
the  age,  a misgrowth  of  ignorance  and  oppression,  a 
falsification  of  the  constitutive  principle,  not  a con- 
stituent part  of  the  same.  No  ; the  theologians  took 
the  lead,  because  the  science  of  theology  was  the  root 
and  the  trunk  of  the  knowledge  of  civilized  man : 
because  it  gave  unity  and  the  circulating  sap  of  life  to 
all  other  sciences,  by  virtue  of  which  alone  they  could 
be  contemplated  as  forming  collectively  the  living  tree 
of  knowledge.  It  had  the  precedency  because,  under 
the  name  theology,  were  comprised  all  the  main  aids, 
instruments,  and  materials  of  national  education,  the 
nisus  formativus  of  the  body  politic,  the  shaping  and 
informing  spirit,  which,  educing  or  eliciting  the  latent 
man  in  all  the  natives  of  the  soil,  trains  them  up  to  be 
citizens  of  the  country,  free  subjects  of  the  realm. 
And,  lastly _,  because  to  divinity  belong  those  funda- 
mental truths  which  are  the  common  groundwork  of 
our  civil  and  our  religious  duties,  not  less  indispensable 
to  a right  view  of  our  temporal  concerns  than  to  a 
rational  faith  respecting  our  immortal  well-being. 
Not  without  celestial  observations  can  even  terrestrial 
charts  be  accurately  constructed.” — Church  and  State , 
chap.  v. 

The  nationalty,  or  national  property,  according  to 
Coleridge,  “ cannot  rightfully,  and  without  foul  wrong  to 
the  nation  never  has  been,  alienated  from  its  original 


362 


COLERIDGE 


purposes,”  from  the  promotion  of  “a  continuing  and 
progressive  civilization,”  to  the  benefit  of  individuals, 
or  any  public  purpose  of  merely  economical  or  material 
interest.  But  the  State  may  withdraw  the  fund  from 
its  actual  holders,  for  the  better  execution  of  its  pur- 
poses. There  is  no  sanctity  attached  to  the  means,  but 
only  to  the  ends.  The  fund  is  not  dedicated  to  any 
particular  scheme  of  religion,  nor  even  to  religion  at 
all ; religion  has  only  to  do  with  it  in  the  character  of 
an  instrument  of  civilization,  and  in  common  with  all 
the  other  instruments.  “ I do  not  assert  that  the  pro- 
ceeds from  the  nationalty  cannot  be  rightfully  vested, 
except  in  what  we  now  mean  by  clergymen  and  the 
established  clergy.  I have  everywhere  implied  the 
contrary.  ...  In  relation  to  the  national  church, 
Christianity,  or  the  Church  of  Christ,  is  a blessed 
accident,  a providential  boon,  a grace  of  God.  . . . 
As  the  olive-tree  is  said  in  its  growth  to  fertilize  the 
surrounding  soil,  to  invigorate  the  roots  of  the  vines 
in  its  immediate  neighbourhood,  and  to  improve  the 
strength  and  flavour  of  the  wines ; such  is  the  relation 
of  the  Christian  and  the  national  Church.  But  as  the 
olive  is  not  the  same  plant  with  the  vine,  or  with  the 
elm  or  poplar  (that  is,  the  State)  with  which  the  vine 
is  wedded ; and  as  the  vine,  with  its  prop,  may  exist, 
though  in  less  perfection,  without  the  olive,  or  pre- 
viously to  its  implantation  : even  so  is  Christianity, 
and  a fortiori  any  particular  scheme  of  theology 
derived,  and  supposed  by  its  partisans  to  be  deduced, 
from  Christianity,  no  essential  part  of  the  being  of  the 
national  Church,  however  conducive  or  even  indis- 
pensable it  may  be  to  its  well-being.” — Chap.  vi. 

What  would  Sir  Robert  Inglis,  or  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
or  Mr.  Spooner  say  to  such  a doctrine  as  this  ? Will 
they  thank  Coleridge  for  this  advocacy  of  Toryism  ? 
What  would  become  of  the  three  years’  debates  on 
the  Appropriation  Clause,  which  so  disgraced  this 
country  before  the  face  of  Europe  ? Will  the  ends  of 
practical  Toryism  be  much  served  by  a theory  under 
which  the  Royal  Society  might  claim  a part  of  the 


COLERIDGE 


363 


Church  property  with  as  good  right  as  the  bench  of 
bishops,  if,  by  endowing  that  body  like  the  French 
Institute,  science  could  be  better  promoted  ? a theory 
by  which  the  State,  in  the  conscientious  exercise  of  its 
judgment,  having  decided  that  the  Church  of  England 
does  not  fulfil  the  object  for  which  the  nationalty 
was  intended,  might  transfer  its  endowments  to  any 
other  ecclesiastical  body,  or  to  any  other  body  not 
ecclesiastical,  which  it  deemed  more  competent  to  fulfil 
those  objects  : might  establish  any  other  sect,  or  all 
sects,  or  no  sect  at  all,  if  it  should  deem  that  in  the 
divided  condition  of  religious  opinion  in  this  country, 
the  State  can  no  longer  with  advantage  attempt  the 
complete  religious  instruction  of  its  people,  but  must 
for  the  present  content  itself  with  providing  secular 
instruction,  and  such  religious  teaching,  if  any,  as  all 
can  take  part  in ; leaving  each  sect  to  apply  to  its  own 
communion  that  which  they  all  agree  in  considering 
as  the  keystone  of  the  arch  ? We  believe  this  to  be 
the  true  state  of  affairs  in  Great  Britain  at  the  present 
time.  We  are  far  from  thinking  it  other  than  a serious 
evil.  We  entirely  acknowledge,  that  in  any  person  fit 
to  be  a teacher,  the  view  he  takes  of  religion  will  be 
intimately  connected  with  the  view  he  will  take  of  all 
the  greatest  things  which  he  has  to  teach.  Unless 
the  same  teachers  who  give  instruction  on  those  other 
subjects,  are  at  liberty  to  enter  freely  on  religion,  the 
scheme  of  education  will  be,  to  a certain  degree,  frag- 
mentary and  incoherent.  But  the  State  at  present  has 
only  the  option  of  such  an  imperfect  scheme,  or  of 
entrusting  the  whole  business  to  perhaps  the  most 
unfit  body  for  the  exclusive  charge  of  it  that  could  be 
found  among  persons  of  any  intellectual  attainments, 
namely,  the  established  clergy  as  at  present  trained 
and  composed.  Such  a body  would  have  no  chance  of 
being  selected  as  the  exclusive  administrators  of  the 
nationalty,  on  any  foundation  but  that  of  divine  right ; 
the  ground  avowedly  taken  by  the  only  other  school  of 
Conservative  philosophy  which  is  attempting  to  raise 
its  head  in  this  country — that  of  the  new  Oxford 
theologians. 


364 


COLERIDGE 


Coleridge’s  merit  in  this  matter  consists,  as  it  seems 
to  us,  in  two  things.  First,  that  by  setting  in  a clear 
light  what  a national  church  establishment  ought  to 
be,  and  what,  by  the  very  fact  of  its  existence,  it 
must  be  held  to  pretend  to  be,  he  has  pronounced  the 
severest  satire  upon  what  in  fact  it  is.  There  is 
some  difference,  truly,  between  Coleridge’s  church,  in 
which  the  schoolmaster  forms  the  first  step  in  the 
hierarchy,  “ who,  in  due  time,  and  under  condition  of 
a faithful  performance  of  his  arduous  duties,  should 
succeed  to  the  pastorate,”  * and  the  Church  of  England 
such  as  we  now  see.  But  to  say  the  Church,  and  mean 
only  the  clergy,  ‘ ‘ constituted,”  according  to  Coleridge’s 
conviction,  “the  first  and  fundamental  apostasy.” t 
He,  and  the  thoughts  which  have  proceeded  from 
him,  have  done  more  than  would  have  been  effected  in 
thrice  the  time  by  Dissenters  and  Radicals,  to  make 
the  Church  ashamed  of  the  evil  of  her  ways,  and 
to  determine  that  movement  of  improvement  from 
within,  which  has  begun  where  it  ought  to  begin,  at 
the  Universities  and  among  the  younger  clergy,  and 
which,  if  this  sect-ridden  country  is  ever  to  be  really 
taught,  must  proceed  pari  passu  with  the  assault 
carried  on  from  without. 

Secondly,  we  honour  Coleridge  for  having  rescued 
from  the  discredit  in  which  the  corruptions  of  the 
English  Church  had  involved  everything  connected 
with  it,  and  for  having  vindicated  against  Bentham 
and  Adam  Smith  and  the  whole  eighteenth  century, 
the  principle  of  an  endowed  class,  for  the  cultivation 
of  learning,  and  for  diffusing  its  results  among  the 
community.  That  such  a class  is  likely  to  be  behind, 
instead  of  before,  the  progress  of  knowledge,  is  an 
induction  erroneously  drawn  from  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  the  last  two  centuries,  and  in  contradiction 
to  all  the  rest  of  modern  history.  If  we  have  seen 
much  of  the  abuses  of  endowments,  we  have  not  seen 
what  this  country  might  be  made  by  a proper  adminis- 
tration of  them,  as  we  trust  we  shall  not  see  what  it 
* P.  57.  f Literary  Remains , iii.  386. 


COLERIDGE 


865 


would  be  without  them.  On  this  subject  we  are 
entirely  at  one  with  Coleridge,  and  with  the  other  great 
defender  of  endowed  establishments,  Dr.  Chalmers; 
and  we  consider  the  definitive  establishment  of  this 
fundamental  principle,  to  be  one  of  the  permanent 
benefits  which  political  science  owes  to  the  Conservative 
philosophers. 

Coleridge’s  theory  of  the  Constitution  is  not  less 
worthy  of  notice  than  his  theory  of  the  Church.  The 
Delolme  and  Blackstone  doctrine,  the  balance  of  the 
three  powers,  he  declares  he  never  could  elicit  one  ray 
of  common  sense  from,  no  more  than  from  the  balance 
of  trade.*  There  is,  however,  according  to  him,  an 
Idea  of  the  Constitution,  of  which  he  says — 

“ Because  our  whole  history,  from  Alfred  onwards, 
demonstrates  the  continued  influence  of  such  an  idea, 
or  ultimate  aim,  in  the  minds  of  our  forefathers,  in 
their  characters  and  functions  as  public  men,  alike  in 
what  they  resisted  and  what  they  claimed;  in  the 
institutions  and  forms  of  polity  which  they  established, 
and  with  regard  to  those  against  which  they  more  or 
less  successfully  contended ; and  because  the  result 
has  been  a progressive,  though  not  always  a direct  or 
equable,  advance  in  the  gradual  realization  of  the 
idea  ; and  because  it  is  actually,  though  (even  because 
it  is  an  idea)  not  adequately,  represented  in  a corre- 
spondent scheme  of  means  really  existing ; we  speak, 
and  have  a right  to  speak,  of  the  idea  itself  as  actually 
existing,  that  is,  as  a principle  existing  in  the  only 
way  in  which  a principle  can  exist — in  the  minds  and 
consciences  of  the  persons  whose  duties  it  prescribes, 
and  whose  rights  it  determines.” f This  fundamental 
idea  “is  at  the  same  time  the  final  criterion  by  which 
all  particular  frames  of  government  must  be  tried  : 
for  here  only  can  we  find  the  great  constructive  prin- 
ciples of  our  representative  system : those  principles 
in  the  light  of  which  it  can  alone  be  ascertained  what 
are  excrescences,  symptoms  of  distemperature,  and 

* The  Friend , first  collected  edition  (1818),  vol.  ii.,  p.  75. 

f Church  and  State,  p.  18. 


366 


COLERIDGE 


marks  of  degeneration,  and  what  are  native  growths, 
or  changes  naturally  attendant  on  the  progressive 
development  of  the  original  germ,  symptoms  of 
immaturity,  perhaps,  but  not  of  disease  ; or,  at  worst, 
modifications  of  the  growth  by  the  defective  or  faulty, 
but  remediless  or  only  gradually  remediable,  qualities 
of  the  soil  and  surrounding  elements.5’* 

Of  these  principles  he  gives  the  following  account : — 

“ It  is  the  chief  of  many  blessings  derived  from  the 
insular  character  and  circumstances  of  our  country, 
that  our  social  institutions  have  formed  themselves 
out  of  our  proper  needs  and  interests  ; that  long  and 
fierce  as  the  birth-struggle  and  growing  pains  have 
been,  the  antagonist  powers  have  been  of  our  own 
system,  and  have  been  allowed  to  work  out  their  final 
balance  with  less  disturbance  from  external  forces  than 
was  possible  in  the  Continental  States.  . . . Now, 
in  every  country  of  civilized  men,  or  acknowledging 
the  rights  of  property,  and  by  means  of  determined 
boundaries  and  common  laws  united  into  one  people 
or  nation,  the  two  antagonist  powers  or  opposite 
interests  of  the  State,  under  which  all  other  State 
interests  are  comprised,  are  those  of  permanence  and 
of  progression . 

The  interest  of  permanence,  or  the  Conservative 
interest,  he  considers  to  be  naturally  connected  with 
the  land,  and  with  landed  property.  This  doctrine, 
false  in  our  opinion  as  an  universal  principle,  is  true 
of  England,  and  of  all  countries  where  landed  property 
is  accumulated  in  large  masses. 

“On  the  other  hand,”  he  says,  “the  progression  of 
a State,  in  the  arts  and  comforts  of  life,  in  the  diffusion 
of  the  information  and  knowledge  useful  or  necessary 
for  all ; in  short,  all  advances  in  civilization,  and  the 
rights  and  privileges  of  citizens,  are  especially  con- 
nected with,  and  derived  from,  the  four  classes, — the 
mercantile,  the  manufacturing,  the  distributive,  and 
the  professional.5’  f (We  must  omit  the  interesting 
historical  illustrations  of  this  maxim.)  “ These  four 
* Church  and  State , p.  19.  f lb.,  pp.  23,  24. 


COLEBIDGE 


367 


last-mentioned  classes  I will  designate  by  the  name  of 
the  Personal  Interest,  as  the  exponent  of  all  moveable 
and  personal  possessions,  including  skill  and  acquired 
knowledge,  the  moral  and  intellectual  stock  in  trade  of 
the  professional  man  and  the  artist,  no  less  than  the 
raw  materials,  and  the  means  of  elaborating,  trans- 
porting, and  distributing  them.”  * 

The  interest  of  permanence,  then,  is  provided  for  by 
a representation  of  the  landed  proprietors ; that  of  pro- 
gression, by  a representation  of  personal  property  and 
of  intellectual  acquirement : and  while  one  branch  of 
the  Legislature,  the  Peerage,  is  essentially  given  over 
to  the  former,  he  considers  it  a part  both  of  the  general 
theory  and  of  the  actual  English  constitution,  that  the 
representatives  of  the  latter  should  form  “ the  clear 
and  effectual  majority  of  the  Lower  House” ; or  if  not, 
that  at  least,  by  the  added  influence  of  public  opinion, 
they  should  exercise  an,  effective  preponderance  there. 
That  “ the  very  weight  intended  for  the  effectual 
counterpoise  of  the  great  landholders”  has  “in  the 
course  of  events,  been  shifted  into  the  opposite  scale  ” ; 
that  the  members  for  the  towns  “ now  constitute  a 
large  proportion  of  the  political  power  and  influence 
of  the  very  class  of  men  whose  personal  cupidity  and 
whose  partial  views  of  the  landed  interest  at  large 
they  were  meant  to  keep  in  check”; — these  things  he 
acknowledges  : and  only  suggests  a doubt,  whether 
roads,  canals,  machinery,  the  press,  and  other  in- 
fluences favourable  to  the  popular  side,  do  not  con- 
stitute an  equivalent  force  to  supply  the  deflciency.t 
How  much  better  a Parliamentary  Keformer,  then, 
is  Coleridge,  than  Lord  John  Bussell,  or  any  Whig 
who  stickles  for  maintaining  this  unconstitutional 
omnipotence  of  the  landed  interest.  If  these  became 
the  principles  of  Tories,  we  should  not  wait  long  for 
further  reform,  even  in  our  organic  institutions.  It 
is  true  Coleridge  disapproved  of  the  Beform  Bill,  or 
rather  of  the  principle,  or  the  no-principle,  on  which  it 
was  supported.  He  saw  in  it  (as  we  may  surmise)  the 
* Church  and  State , p.  29.  f lb.,  pp.  31,  32. 


368 


COLERIDGE 


dangers  of  a change  amounting  almost  to  a revolution, 
without  any  real  tendency  to  remove  those  defects  in 
the  machine,  which  alone  could  justify  a change  so 
extensive.  And  that  this  is  nearly  a true  view  of 
the  matter,  all  parties  seem  to  be  now  agreed.  The 
Reform  Bill  was  not  calculated  materially  to  improve 
the  general  composition  of  the  Legislature.  The  good 
it  has  done,  which  is  considerable,  consists  chiefly  in 
this,  that  being  so  great  a change,  it  has  weakened  the 
superstitious  feeling  against  great  changes.  Any  good, 
which  is  contrary  to  the  selfish  interest  of  the  dominant 
class,  is  still  only  to  be  effected  by  a long  and  arduous 
struggle  : but  improvements,  which  threaten  no  power- 
ful body  in  their  social  importance  or  in  their  pecuniary 
emoluments,  are  no  longer  resisted  as  they  once  were, 
because  of  their  greatness — because  of  the  very  benefit 
which  they  promised.  Witness  the  speedy  passing  of 
the  Poor  Law  Amendment  and  the  Penny  Postage  Acts. 

Meanwhile,  though  Coleridge’s  theory  is  but  a mere 
commencement,  not  amounting  to  the  first  lines  of  a 
political  philosophy,  has  the  age  produced  any  other 
theory  of  government  which  can  stand  a comparison 
with  it  as  to  its  first  principles  ? Let  us  take,  for 
example,  the  Benthamic  theory.  The  principle  of  this 
may  be  said  to  be,  that  since  the  general  interest  is 
the  object  of  government,  a complete  control  over  the 
government  ought  to  be  given  to  those  whose  interest 
is  identical  with  the  general  interest.  The  authors  and 
propounders  of  this  theory  were  men  of  extraordinary 
intellectual  powers,  and  the  greater  part  of  what  they 
meant  by  it  is  true  and  important.  But  when  con- 
sidered as  the  foundation  of  a science,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  among  theories  proceeding  from  philo- 
sophers one  less  like  a philosophical  theory,  or,  in  the 
works  of  analytical  minds,  anything  more  entirely  un- 
analytical.  What  can  a philosopher  make  of  such 
complex  notions  as  “ interest”  and  “ general  interest,” 
without  breaking  them  down  into  the  elements  of 
which  they  are  composed  ? If  by  men’s  interest  be 
meant  what  would  appear  such  to  a calculating 


COLERIDGE 


369 


bystander,  judging  what  would  be  good  for  a man  during 
his  whole  life,  and  making  no  account,  or  but  little,  of 
the  gratification  of  his  present  passions,  his  pride,  his 
envy,  his  vanity,  his  cupidity,  his  love  of  pleasure,  his 
love  of  ease — it  may  be  questioned  whether,  in  this 
sense,  the  interest  of  an  aristocracy,  and  still  more 
that  of  a monarch,  would  not  be  as  accordant  with  the 
general  interest  as  that  of  either  the  middle  or  the 
poor  classes ; and  if  men’s  interest,  in  this  under- 
standing of  it,  usually  governed  their  conduct,  abso- 
lute monarchy  would  probably  be  the  best  form  of 
government.  But  since  men  usually  do  what  they 
like,  often  being  perfectly  aware  that  it  is  not  for  their 
ultimate  interest,  still  more  often  that  it  is  not  for  the 
interest  of  their  posterity;  and  when  they  do  believe 
that  the  object  they  are  seeking  is  permanently  good  for 
them,  almost  always  overrating  its  value ; it  is  neces- 
sary to  consider,  not  who  are  they  whose  permanent 
interest,  but  who  are  they  whose  immediate  interest 
and  habitual  feelings,  are  likely  to  be  most  in  accord- 
ance with  the  end  we  seek  to  obtain.  And  as  that  end 
(the  general  good)  is  a very  complex  state  of  things, 
comprising  as  its  component  elements  many  requisites 
which  are  neither  of  one  and  the  same  nature,  nor 
attainable  by  one  and  the  same  means  — political, 
philosophy  must  begin  by  a classification  of  these/ 
elements,  in  order  to  distinguish  those  of  them  which 
go  naturally  together  (so  that  the  provision  made 
for  one  will  suffice  for  the  rest),  from  those  which 
are  ordinarily  in  a state  of  antagonism,  or  at  least 
of  separation,  and  require  to  be  provided  for  apart. 
This  preliminary  classification  being  supposed,  things 
would,  in  a perfect  government,  be  so  ordered,  that 
corresponding  to  each  of  the  great  interests  of  society, 
there  would  be  some  branch  or  some  integral  part  of 
the  governing  body,  so  constituted  that  it  should  not 
be  merely  deemed  by  philosophers,  but  actually  and 
constantly  deem  itself,  to  have  its  strongest  interests 
involved  in  the  maintenance  of  that  one  of  the  ends  of 
society  which  it  is  intended  to  be  the  guardian  of- 

24 


370 


COLERIDGE 


This,  we  say,  is  the  thing  to  be  aimed  at,  the  type  of 
perfection  in  a political  constitution.  Not  that  there  is 
a possibility  of  making  more  than  a limited  approach 
to  it  in  practice.  A government  must  be  composed 
out  of  the  elements  already  existing  in  society,  and 
the  distribution  of  power  in  the  constitution  cannot 
vary  much  or  long  from  the  distribution  of  it  in 
society  itself.  But  wherever  the  circumstances  of 
society  allow  any  choice,  wherever  wisdom-  and  con- 
trivance are  at  all  available,  this,  we  conceive,  is  the 
principle  of  guidance ; and  whatever  anywhere  exists 
is  imperfect  and  a failure,  just  so  far  as  it  recedes, 
from  this  type. 

Such  a philosophy  of  government,  we  need  hardly 
say,  is  in  its  infancy  : the  first  step  to  it,  the  classi- 
fication of  the  exigencies  of  society,  has  not  beenj 
made.  Bentham,  in  his  Principles  of  Civil  Law , has' 
given  a specimen,  very  useful  for  many  other  purposes^ 
but  not  available,  nor  intended  to  be  so,  for  founding 
theory  of  representation  upon  it.  For  that  particular 
purpose  we  have  seen  nothing  comparable  as . far  as  it, 
goes,  notwithstanding  its  manifest  insufficiency,  to 
Coleridge’s  division  of  the  interests  of  society  into  the 
two  antagonist  interests  of  Permanence  and  Progres- 
sion. The  Continental  philosophers  have,  by  a different 
path,  arrived  at  the  same  division ; and  this  is  abou'jf 
as  far,  probably,  as  the  science  of  political  institutions* 
has  yet  reached. 

% In  the  details  of  Coleridge’s  political  opinions  ther£ 
is  much  good,  and  much  that  is  questionable,  or  worsen 
In  political  economy  especially  he  writes  like  ail 
arrant  driveller,  and  it  would  have  been  well  for  his 
reputation  had  he  never  meddled  with  the  subject.^ 
But  this  department  of  knowledge  can  now  take  care 

* Yet  even  on  this  subject  he  has  occasionally  a jusi 
thought,  happily  expressed  ; as  this  : “ Instead  of  the  positior 
that  all  things  find,  it  would  be  less  equivocal  and  far  mor( 
descriptive  of  the  fact  to  say,  that  things  are  always  findin| 
their  level ; which  might  be  taken  as  a paraphrase  or  iromca 
definition  of  a storm.” — Second  Lay  Sermon , p.  403. 


COLERIDGE 


371 


of  itself.  On  other  points  we  meet  with  far-reaching 
remarks,  and  a tone  of  general  feeling  sufficient  to 
make  a Tory’s  hair  stand  on  end.  Thus,  in  the  work 
from  which  we  have  most  quoted,  he  calls  the  State 
policy  of  the  last  half-century  “ a Cyclops  with  one 
eye,  and  that  in  the  back  of  the  head” — its  measures 
“ either  a series  of  anachronisms,  or  a truckling  to 
events  instead  of  the  science  that  should  command 
them.”*  He  styles  the  great  Common wealthsmen 
“ the  stars  of  that  narrow  interspace  of  blue  sky  be- 
tween the  black  clouds  of  the  First  and  Second 
Charles’s  reigns. ”f  The  Literary  Bemains  are  full 
of  disparaging  remarks  on  many  of  the  heroes  of 
Toryism  and  Church-of-Englandism.  He  sees,  for 
instance,  no  difference  between  Whitgift  and  Ban- 
croft, and  Bonner  and  Gardiner,  except  that  the  last 
were  the  most  consistent  — that  the  former  sinned 
against  better  knowledge  ; J and  one  of  the  most 
poignant  of  his  writings  is  a character  of  Pitt,  the 
very  reverse  of  panegyrical.  § As  a specimen  of  his 
practical  views,  we  have  mentioned  his  recommenda- 
tion that  the  parochial  clergy  should  begin  by  being 
schoolmasters.  He  urges  “ a different  division  and 
subdivision  of  the  kingdom  ” instead  of  “ the  present 
barbarism,  which  forms  an  obstacle  to  the  improve- 
ment of  the  country  of  much  greater  magnitude  than 
men  are  generally  aware.”  ||  But  we  must  confine 
ourselves  to  instances  in  which  he  has  helped  to  bring 
forward  great  principles,  either  implied  in  the  old 
English  opinions  and  institutions,  or  at  least  opposed 
to  the  new  tendencies. 

For  example,  he  is  at  issue  with  the  let  alone  doc- 
trine, or  the  theory  that  governments  can  do  no  better 
than  to  do  nothing  ; a doctrine  generated  by  the 
manifest  selfishness  and  incompetence  of  modern 

* Church  and  State , p.  69.  f lb.,  p.  102. 

X Literary  Remains , ii.  388. 

§ Written  in  the  Morning  Post , and  now  (as  we  rejoice  to 
see)  reprinted  in  Mr.  Gillman’s  biographical  memoir. 

||  Literary  Remains , p.  56. 


24—2 


372 


COLERIDGE 


European  governments,  but  of  which,  as  a general 
theory,  we  may  now  be  permitted  to  say,  that  one 
half  of  it  is  true  and  the  other  half  false.  All  who 
are  on  a level  with  their  age  now  readily  admit  that 
government  ought  not  to  interdict  men  from  publish- 
ing their  opinions,  pursuing  their  employments,  or 
buying  and  selling  their  goods,  in  whatever  place  or 
manner  they  deem  the  most  advantageous.  Beyond 
suppressing  force  and  fraud,  governments  can  seldom, 
without  doing  more  harm  than  good,  attempt  to 
chain  up  the  free  agency  of  individuals.  But  does 
it  follow  from  this  that  government  cannot  exercise 
a free  agency  of  its  own  ? — that  it  cannot  beneficially 
employ  its  powers,  its  means  of  information,  and  its 
pecuniary  resources  (so  far  surpassing  those  of  any 
other  association,  or  of  any  individual),  in  promoting 
the  public  welfare  by  a thousand  means  which  indi- 
viduals would  never  think  of,  would  have  no  sufficient 
motives  to  attempt,  or  no  sufficient  powers  to  accom- 
plish ? To  confine  ourselves  to  one,  and  that  a limited 
view  of  the  subject : a State  ought  to  be  considered  as 
a great  benefit  society,  or  mutual  insurance  company, 
for  helping  (under  the  necessary  regulations  for  pre- 
venting abuse)  that  large  proportion  of  its  members 
who  cannot  help  themselves. 

“ Let  us  suppose,”  says  Coleridge,  “ the  negative  ends  of  a 
State  already  attained,  namely,  its  own  safety  by  means  of  its 
own  strength,  and  the  protection  of  person  and  property  for 
all  its  members ; there  will  then  remain  its  positive  ends  : — 
3.  To  make  the  means  of  subsistence  more  easy  to  each  in- 
dividual : 2.  To  secure  to  each  of  its  members  the  hope  of 
bettering  his  own  condition  or  that  of  his  children : 3.  The 
development  of  those  faculties  which  are  essential  to  his 
humanity,  that  is,  to  his  rational  and  moral  being.”  * 

In  regard  to  the  two  former  ends,  he  of  course  does 
not  mean  that  they  can  be  accomplished  merely  by 
making  laws  to  that  effect  ; or  that,  according  to  the 
wild  doctrines  now  afloat,  it  is  the  fault  of  the  govern- 
ment if  every  one  has  not  enough  to  eat  and  drink. 

* Second  Lay  Sermon , p.  414. 


COLEKIDGE 


373 


But  he  means  that  government  can  do  something 
directly,  and  very  much  indirectly,  to  promote  even 
the  physical  comfort  of  the  people  ; and  that  if, 
besides  making  a proper  use  of  its  own  powers,  it 
would  exert  itself  to  teach  the  people  what  is  in 
theirs,  indigence  would  soon  disappear  from  the  face 
of  the  earth. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  greatest  service  which  Cole- 
ridge has  rendered  to  politics  in  his  capacity  of  a 
Conservative  philosopher,  though  its  fruits  are  mostly 
yet  to  come,  is  in  reviving  the  idea  of  a trust  inherent 
in  landed  property.  The  land,  the  gift  of  nature,  the 
source  of  subsistence  to  all,  and  the  foundation  of 
everything  that  influences  our  physical  well-being, 
cannot  be  considered  a subject  of  property,  in  the  same 
absolute  sense  in  which  men  are  deemed  proprietors 
of  that  in  which  no  one  has  any  interest  but  them- 
selves— that  which  they  have  actually  called  into 
existence  by  their  own  bodily  exertion.  As  Coleridge 
points  out,  such  a notion  is  altogether  of  modern 
growth. 

“The  very  idea  of  individual  or  private  property  in  our 
present  acceptation  of  the  term,  and  according  to  the  current 
notion  of  the  right  to  it,  was  originally  confined  to  moveable 
things ; and  the  more  moveable,  the  more  susceptible  of  the 
nature  of  property.”  * 

By  the  early  institutions  of  Europe,  property  in  land 
was  a public  function,  created  for  certain  public  pur- 
poses, and  held  under  condition  of  their  fulfilment ; 
and  as  such,  we  predict,  under  the  modifications  suited 
to  modern  society,  it  will  again  come  to  be  considered. 
In  this  age,  when  everything  is  called  in  question,  and 
when  the  foundation  of  private  property  itself  needs  to 
be  argumentatively  maintained  against  plausible  and 
persuasive  sophisms,  one  may  easily  see  the  danger  of 
mixing  up  what  is  not  really  tenable  with  what  is — and 
the  impossibility  of  maintaining  an  absolute  right  in  an 
individual  to  an  unrestricted  control,  a jus  utendi  et 

* Second  Lay  Sermon , p.  414. 


374 


COLEEIDGE 


abutendi , over  an  unlimited  quantity  of  the  mere  raw 
material  of  the  globe,  to  which  every  other  person 
could  originally  make  out  as  good  a natural  title  as 
himself.  It  will  certainly  not  be  much  longer  tolerated 
that  agriculture  should  be  carried  on  (as  Coleridge 
expresses  it)  on  the  same  principles  as  those  of  trade  ; 
“that  a gentleman  should  regard  his  estate  as  a mer- 
chant his  cargo,  or  a shopkeeper  his  stock  ” ; * that  he 
should  be  allowed  to  deal  with  it  as  if  it  only  existed  to 
yield  rent  to  him,  not  food  to  the  numbers  whose  hands 
till  it  ; and  should  have  a right,  and  a right  possessing 
all  the  sacredness  of  property,  to  turn  them  out  by 
hundreds  and  make  them  perish  on  the  high  road,  as 
has  been  done  before  now  by  Irish  landlords.  We 
believe  it  will  soon  be  thought,  that  a mode  of  property 
in  land  which  has  brought  things  to  this  pass,  has 
existed  long  enough. 

We  shall  not  be  suspected  (we  hope)  of  recommend- 
ing a general  resumption  of  landed  possessions,  or  the 
depriving  anyone,  without  compensation,  of  anything 
which  the  law  gives  him.  But  we  say  that  when  the 
State  allows  anyone  to  exercise  ownership  over  more 
land  than  suffices  to  raise  by  his  own  labour  his  sub- 
sistence and  that  of  his  family,  it  confers  on  him  power 
over  other  human  beings — power  affecting  them  in 
their  most  vital  interests  ; and  that  no  notion  of  private 
property  can  bar  the  right  which  the  State  inherently 
possesses,  to  require  that  the  power  which  it  has  so 
given  shall  not  be  abused.  We  say,  also,  that,  by 
giving  this  direct  power  over  so  large  a portion  of  the 
community,  indirect  power  is  necessarily  conferred 
over  all  the  remaining  portion ; and  this,  too,  it  is 
the  duty  of  the  State  to  place  under  proper  control. 
Further,  the  tenure  of  land,  the  various  rights  con- 
nected with  it,  and  the  system  on  which  its  cultivation 
is  carried  on,  are  points  of  the  utmost  importance  both 
to  the  economical  and  to  the  moral  well-being  of  the 
whole  community.  And  the  State  fails  in  one  of  its 
highest  obligations,  unless  it  takes  these  points  under 
* Second  Lay  Sermon , p,  414. 


COLERIDGE 


375 


its  particular  superintendence ; unless,  to  the  full 
extent  of  its  power,  it  takes  means  of  providing  that 
the  manner  in  which  land  is  held,  the  mode  and 
degree  of  its  division,  and  every  other  peculiarity  which 
influences  the  mode  of  its  cultivation,  shall  be  the  most 
favourable  possible  for  making  the  best  use  of  the 
land : for  drawing  the  greatest  benefit  from  its  pro- 
ductive resources,  for  securing  the  happiest  existence 
to  those  employed  on  it,  and  for  setting  the  greatest 
number  of  hands  free  to  employ  their  labour  for  the 
benefit  of  the  community  in  other  ways.  We  believe 
that  these  opinions  will  become,  in  no  very  long 
period,  universal  throughout  Europe.  And  we  grate- 
fully bear  testimony  to  the  fact,  that  the  first  among 
us  who  has  given  the  sanction  of  philosophy  to  so 
great  a reform  in  the  popular  and  current  notions,  is  a 
Conservative  philosopher. 

Of  Coleridge  as  a moral  and  religious  philosopher 
(the  character  which  he  presents  most  prominently  in 
his  principal  works),  there  is  neither  room,  nor  would 
it  be  expedient  for  us  to  speak  more  than  generally. 
On  both  subjects,  few  men  have  ever  combined  so 
much  earnestness  with  so  catholic  and  unsectarian  a 
spirit.  “ We  have  imprisoned,”  says  he,  “ our  own 
conceptions  by  the  lines  which  we  have  drawn  in 
order  to  exclude  the  conceptions  of  others.  J'ai 
trouve  que  la  plupart  des  sectes  ont  raison  dans  une 
bonne  jpartie  de  ce  qu'elles  avancent , mais  non  pas 
tant  en  ce  qu'elles  nient .”*  That  almost  all  sects, 
both  in  philosophy  and  religion,  are  right  in  the  posi- 
tive part  of  their  tenets,  though  commonly  wrong  in 
the  negative,  is  a doctrine  which  he  professes  as 
strongly  as  the  eclectic  school  in  France.  Almost  all 
errors  he  holds  to  be  “ truths  misunderstood,”  “ half- 
truths  taken  as  the  whole,”  though  not  the  less,  but 
the  more  dangerous  on  that  account,  f Both  the 
theory  and  practice  of  enlightened  tolerance  in  matters 
of  opinion  might  be  exhibited  in  extracts  from  his 

* Biographia  Literaria , ed,  1817,  vol.  i.,  p.  249. 

*|*  Literary  Remains,  iii.  145. 


376 


COLEEIDGE 


writings  more  copiously  than  in  those  of  any  other 
writer  we  know : though  there  are  a few  (and  but  a 
few)  exceptions  to  his  own  practice  of  it.  In  the 
theory  of  ethics,  he  contends  against  the  doctrine 
of  general  consequences,  and  holds  that,  for  man , 
“to  obey  the  simple  unconditional  commandment  of 
eschewing  every  act  that  implies  a self-contradiction  ” 
— so  to  act  as  to  “ be  able,  without  involving  any  con- 
tradiction, to  will  that  the  maxim  of  thy  conduct 
should  be  the  law  of  all  intelligent  beings, — is  the 
one  universal  and  sufficient  principle  and  guide  of 
morality.55* * * §  Yet  even  a utilitarian  can  have  little 
complaint  to  make  of  a philosopher  who  lays  it  down 
that  “ the  outward  object  of  virtue  ” is  “ the  greatest 
producible  sum  of  happiness  of  all  men,”  and  that 
“ happiness  in  its  proper  sense  is  but  the  continuity 
and  sum-total  of  the  pleasure  which  is  allotted  or 
happens  to  a man.”  f 

But  his  greatest  object  was  to  bring  into  harmony 
Beligion  and  Philosophy.  He  laboured  incessantly  to 
establish  that  “ the  Christian  faith — in  which,55  says  he, 
“ I include  every  article  of  belief  and  doctrine  pro- 
fessed by  the  first  reformers  in  common  ” — is  not  only 
divine  truth,  but  also  “ the  perfection  of  Human  In- 
telligence.1’^ All  that  Christianity  has  revealed, 
philosophy,  according  to  him,  can  prove,  though  there 
is  much  which  it  could  never  have  discovered ; human 
reason,  once  strengthened  by  Christianity,  can  evolve 
all  the  Christian  doctrines  from  its  own  sources.  § 
Moreover,  “if  infidelity  is  not' to  overspread  England 
as  well  as  France, 55||  the  Scripture,  and  every  passage 
of  Scripture,  must  be  submitted  to  this  test ; inasmuch 
as  “ the  incompatibility  of  a document  with  the  con- 
clusions of  self-evident  reason,  and  with  the  laws  of 
conscience,  is  a condition  d 'priori  of  any  evidence 
adequate  to  the  proof  of  its  having  been  revealed  by 

* The  Friend,  vol.  i.,  pp.  256  and  340. 

+ Aids  to  Reflection,  pp.  37  and  39. 

X Preface  to  the  Aids  to  Reflection . 

§ Literary  Remains,  vol.  i.,  p.  388.  ||  lb.,  iii.  263. 


COLERIDGE 


877 


God”;  and  this,  he  says,  is  no  philosophical  novelty, 
but  a principle  “ clearly  laid  down  both  by  Moses  and 
St.  Paul.”  * He  thus  goes  quite  as  far  as  the  Unitarians 
in  making  man’s  reason  and  moral  feelings  a test  of 
revelation;  but  differs  toto  coelo  from  them  in  their 
rejection  of  its  mysteries,  which  he  regards  as  the 
highest  philosophic  truths,  and  says  that  “ the  Chris- 
tian to  whom,  after  a long  profession  of  Christianity, 
the  mysteries  remain  as  much  mysteries  as  before,  is 
in  the  same  state  as  a schoolboy  with  regard  to  his 
arithmetic,  to  whom  the  facit  at  the  end  of  the 
examples  in  his  cyphering-book  is  the  whole  ground  for 
his  assuming  that  such  and  such  figures  amount  to  so 
and  so.” 

These  opinions  are  not  likely  to  be  popular  in  the 
religious  world,  and  Coleridge  knew  it  : “I  quite  cal- 
culate,”! said  he  once,  “ on  my  being  one  day  or  other 
holden  in  worse  repute  by  many  Christians  than  the 
‘ Unitarians  ’ and  even  4 Infidels.’  It  must  be  under- 
gone by  every  one  who  loves  the  truth  for  its  own  sake 
beyond  all  other  things.”  For  our  part,  we  are  not 
bound  to  defend  him ; and  we  must  admit  that,  in  his 
attempt  to  arrive  at  theology  by  way  of  philosophy,  we 
see  much  straining,  and  most  frequently,  as  it  appears 
to  us,  total  failure.  The  question,  however,  is  not 
whether  Coleridge’s  attempts  are  successful,  but 
whether  it  is  desirable  or  not  that  such  attempts  should 
be  made.  Whatever  some  religious  people  may  think, 
philosophy  will  and  must  go  on,  ever  seeking  to  under- 
stand whatever  can  be  made  understandable ; and, 
whatever  some  philosophers  may  think,  there  is  little 
prospect  at  present  that  philosophy  will  take  the  place 
of  religion,  or  that  any  philosophy  will  be  speedily  re- 
ceived in  this  country,  unless  supposed  not  only  to  be 
consistent  with,  but  even  to  yield  collateral  support  to, 
Christianity.  What  is  the  use,  then,  of  treating  with 
contempt  the  idea  of  a religious  philosophy  ? Religious 
philosophies  are  among  the  things  to  be  looked  for,  and 

* Literary  Remains , iii.,  p.  293. 

f Table  Talk , 2nd  ed.,  p.  91. 


378 


COLEKIDGE 


our  main  hope  ought  to  be  that  they  may  be  such  as 
fulfil  the  conditions  of  a philosophy — the  very  fore- 
most of  which  is,  unrestricted  freedom  of  thought. 
There  is  no  philosophy  possible  where  fear  of  conse- 
quences is  a stronger  principle  than  love  of  truth ; 
where  speculation  is  paralyzed,  either  by  the  belief 
that  conclusions  honestly  arrived  at  will  be  punished 
by  a just  and  good  Being  with  eternal  damnation,  or 
by  seeing  in  every  text  of  Scripture  a foregone  conclu- 
sion, with  which  the  results  of  inquiry  must,  at  any 
expense  of  sophistry  and  self-deception,  be  made  to 
quadrate. 

From  both  these  withering  influences,  that  have  so 
often  made  the  acutest  intellects  exhibit  specimens  of 
obliquity  and  imbecility  in  their  theological  specula- 
tions which  have  made  them  the  pity  of  subsequent 
generations,  Coleridge’s  mind  was  perfectly  free. 
Faith — the  faith  which  is  placed  among  religious 
duties — was,  in  his  view,  a state  of  the  will  and  of  the 
affections,  not  of  the  understanding.  Heresy,  in  “ the 
literal  sense  and  scriptural  import  of  the  word,”  is, 
according  to  him,  “ wilful  error,  or  belief  originating 
in  some  perversion  of  the  will”;  he  says,  therefore, 
that  there  may  be  orthodox  heretics,  since  indifference 
to  truth  may  as  well  be  shown  on  the  right  side  of  the 
question  as  on  the  wrong ; and  denounces,  in  strong 
language,  the  contrary  doctrine  of  the  “ pseudo- 
Athanasius,”  who  “ interprets  Catholic  faith  by 
belief,”  * an  act  of  the  understanding  alone.  The 
“true  Lutheran  doctrine,”  he  says,  is,  that  “neither 
will  truth,  as  a mere  conviction  of  the  understanding, 
save,  nor  error  condemn.  To  love  truth  sincerely  is 
spiritually  to  have  truth  ; and  an  error  becomes  a per- 
sonal error,  not  by  its  aberration  from  logic  or  history, 
but  so  far  as  the  causes  of  such  error  are  in  the  heart,  or 
may  be  traced  back  to  some  antecedent  unchristian 
wish  or  habit.”  f “ The  unmistakable  passions  of  a 
factionary  and  a schismatic,  the  ostentatious  display, 
the  ambitious  and  dishonest  arts  of  a sect-founder, 
* Literary  Remains , iv.  193.  *f  lb.,  iii.  159. 


COLEKIDGE 


379 


must  be  superinduced  on  the  false  doctrine  before  the 
heresy  makes  the  man  a heretic.”* 

Against  the  other  terror,  so  fatal  to  the  unshackled 
exercise  of  reason  on  the  greatest  questions,  the  view 
which  Coleridge  took  of  the  authority  of  the  Scriptures 
was  a preservative.  He  drew  the  strongest  distinction 
between  the  inspiration  which  he  owned  in  the  various 
writers,  and  an  express  dictation  by  the  Almighty  of 
every  word  they  wrote.  “ The  notion  of  the  absolute 
truth  and  divinity  of  every  syllable  of  the  text  of  the 
books  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament  as  we  have  it,” 
he  again  and  again  asserts  to  be  unsupported  by  the 
Scripture  itself  ; to  be  one  of  those  superstitions  in 
which  “ there  is  a heart  of  unbelief  ”;+  to  be,  “if 
possible,  still  more  extravagant”  than  the  Papal  in- 
fallibility ; and  declares  that  the  very  same  arguments 
are  used  for  both  doctrines.  £ God,  he  believes,  informed 
the  minds  of  the  writers  with  the  truths  he  meant  to 
reveal,  and  left  the  rest  to  their  human  faculties.  He 
pleaded  most  earnestly,  says  his  nephew  and  editor, 
for  this  liberty  of  criticism  with  respect  to  the  Scrip- 
tures, as  “ the  only  middle  path  of  safety  and  peace 
between  a godless  disregard  of  the  unique  and  tran- 
scendent character  of  the  Bible,  taken  generally,  and 
that  scheme  of  interpretation,  scarcely  less  adverse  to 
the  pure  spirit  of  Christian  wisdom,  which  wildly 
arrays  our  faith  in  opposition  to  our  reason,  and 
inculcates  the  sacrifice  of  the  latter  to  the  former ; for 
he  threw  up  his  hands  in  dismay  at  the  language  of 
some  of  our  modern  divinity  on  this  point,  as  if  a faith 
not  founded  on  insight  were  aught  else  than  a specious 
name  for  wilful  positiveness  ; as  if  the  Father  of  Lights 
could  require,  or  would  accept,  from  the  only  one  of 
his  creatures  whom  he  had  endowed  with  reason,  the 
sacrifice  of  fools  ! ...  Of  the  aweless  doctrine  that 
God  might,  if  he  had  so  pleased,  have  given  to  man  a 

* Literary  Remains , p.  245. 

f lb.,  iii.  229  ; see  also  pp.  254, 323,  and  many  other  passages 
in  the  3rd  and  4th  volumes. 

% lb.,  ii.  385. 


380 


COLERIDGE 


religion  which  to  human  intelligence  should  not  be 
rational,  and  exacted  his  faith  in  it,  Coleridge’s  whole 
middle  and  later  life  was  one  deep  and  solemn  denial.”  * 
He  bewails  “ bibliolatry  ” as  the  pervading  error  of 
modern  Protestant  divinity,  and  the  great  stumbling- 
block  of  Christianity,  and  exclaims, + “ 0 might  I live 
but  to  utter  all  my  meditations  on  this  most  concern- 
ing point  ...  in  what  sense  the  Bible  may  be  called 
the  word  of  God,  and  how  and  under  what  conditions 
the  unity  of  the  Spirit  is  translucent  through  the 
letter,  which,  read  as  the  letter  merely,  is  the  word  of 
this  and  that  pious,  but  fallible  and  imperfect  man.” 
It  is  known  that  he  did  live  to  write  down  these 
meditations ; and  speculations  so  important  will  one 
day,  it  is  devoutly  to  be  hoped,  be  given  to  the  world. J 

Theological  discussion  is  beyond  our  province,  and 
it  is  not  for  us,  in  this  place,  to  judge  these  sentiments 
of  Coleridge ; but  it  is  clear  enough  that  they  are  not 
the  sentiments  of  a bigot,  or  of  one  who  is  to  be 
dreaded  by  Liberals,  lest  he  should  illiberalize  the 
minds  of  the  rising  generation  of  Tories  and  High- 
Churchmen.  We  think  the  danger  is  rather  lest  they 
should  find  him  vastly  too  liberal.  And  yet,  now 
when  the  most  orthodox  divines,  both  in  the  Church 
and  out  of  it,  find  it  necessary  to  explain  away  the 
obvious  sense  of  the  whole  first  chapter  of  Genesis,  or 
failing  to  do  that,  consent  to  disbelieve  it  provisionally, 
on  the  speculation  that  there  may  hereafter  be  dis- 
covered a sense  in  which  it  can  be  believed,  one 
would  think  the  time  gone  by  for  expecting  to  learn 
from  the  Bible  what  it  never  could  have  been  intended 
to  communicate,  and  to  find  in  all  its  statements  a 
literal  truth  neither  necesssary  nor  conducive  to  what 
the  volume  itself  declares  to  be  the  ends  of  revelation. 

* Preface  to  the  3rd  volume  of  the  Literary  Bemains. 

f Literary  Bemains , iv.  6. 

t [This  wish  has,  to  a certain  extent,  been  fulfilled  by  the 
publication  of  the  series  of  letters  on  the  Inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures,  which  bears  the  not  very  appropriate  name  of 
Confessions  of  an  Inquiring  Spirit  i] 


COLEEIDGE 


881 


Such  at  least  was  Coleridge’s  opinion  : and  whatever 
influence  such  an  opinion  may  have  over  Conservatives* 
it  cannot  do  other  than  make  them  less  bigots,  and 
better  philosophers. 

But  we  must  close  this  long  essay : long  in  itself, 
though  short  in  its  relation  to  its  subject,  and  to  the 
multitude  of  topics  involved  in  it.  We  do  not  pretend 
to  have  given  any  sufficient  account  of  Coleridge  ; but 
we  hope  we  may  have  proved  to  some,  not  previously 
aware  of  it,  that  there  is  something  both  in  him,  and 
in  the  school  to  which  he  belongs,  not  unworthy  of 
their  better  knowledge.  We  may  have  done  some- 
thing to  show  that  a Tory  philosopher  cannot  be 
wholly  a Tory,  but  must  often  be  a better  Liberal 
than  Liberals  themselves ; while  he  is  the  natural 
means  of  rescuing  from  oblivion  truths  which  Tories, 
have  forgotten,  and  which  the  prevailing  schools  of 
Liberalism  never  knew. 

And  even  if  a Conservative  philosophy  were  an 
absurdity,  it  is  well  calculated  to  drive  out  a hundred 
absurdities  worse  than  itself.  Let  no  one  think  that 
it  is  nothing,  to  accustom  people  to  give  a reason  for 
their  opinion,  be  the  opinion  ever  so  untenable,  the 
reason  ever  so  insufficient.  A person  accustomed  to 
submit  his  fundamental  tenets  to  the  test  of  reason,, 
will  be  more  open  to  the  dictates  of  reason  on  every 
other  point.  Not  from  him  shall  we  have  to  appre- 
hend the  owl-like  dread  of  light,  the  drudge -like 
aversion  to  change,  which  were  the  characteristics  of 
the  old  unreasoning  race  of  bigots.  A man  accus- 
tomed to  contemplate  the  fair  side  of  Toryism  (the 
side  that  every  attempt  at  a philosophy  of  it  musk 
bring  to  view),  and  to  defend  the  existing  system  by 
the  display  of  its  capabilities  as  an  engine  of  public 
good, — such  a man,  when  he  comes  to  administer  the 
system,  will  be  more  anxious  than  another  person  to 
realize  those  capabilities,  to  bring  the  fact  a little 
nearer  to  the  specious  theory.  “ Lord,  enlighten  thou 
our  enemies,”  should  be  the  prayer  of  every  true 
Beformer ; sharpen  their  wits,  give  acuteness  to  their- 


382 


COLEBIDGE 


perceptions,  and  consecutiveness  and  clearness  to  their 
reasoning  powers  : we  are  in  danger  from  their  folly, 
not  from  their  wisdom  ; their  weakness  is  what  fills  us 
with  apprehension,  not  their  strength. 

For  ourselves,  we  are  not  so  blinded  by  our  par- 
ticular opinions  as  to  be  ignorant  that  in  this  and  in 
every  other  country  of  Europe,  the  great  mass  of  the 
owners  of  large  property,  and  of  all  the  classes  inti- 
mately connected  with  the  owners  of  large  property, 
are,  and  must  be  expected  to  be,  in  the  main,  Con- 
servative. To  suppose  that  so  mighty  a body  can  be 
without  immense  influence  in  the  commonwealth,  or 
to  lay  plans  for  effecting  great  changes,  either  spiritual 
or  temporal,  in  which  they  are  left  out  of  the  question, 
would  be  the  height  of  absurdity.  Let  those  who 
desire  such  changes,  ask  themselves  if  they  are  content 
that  these  classes  should  be,  and  remain,  to  a man, 
banded  against  them  ; and  what  progress  they  expect 
to  make,  or  by  what  means,  unless  a process  of  pre- 
paration shall  be  going  on  in  the  minds  of  these  very 
classes ; not  by  the  impracticable  method  of  converting 
them  from  Conservatives  into  Liberals,  but  by  their 
being  led  to  adopt  one  liberal  opinion  after  another, 
as  a part  of  Conservatism  itself.  The  first  step  to  this 
is  to  inspire  them  with  the  desire  to  systematize  and 
rationalize  their  own  actual  creed  : and  the  feeblest 
attempt  to  do  this  has  an  intrinsic  value  ; far  more, 
then,  one  which  has  so  much  in  it,  both  of  moral 
goodness  and  true  insight,  as  the  philosophy  of 
Goleridge 


APPENDIX 


885 


of  the  government  almost  a necessary  condition  of  its 
security,  a very  considerable  degree  of  good  govern- 
ment has  occasionally  been  produced,  without  any 
express  accountability  to  the  people.  Such  fortunate 
circumstances,  however,  are  seldom  to  be  reckoned 
upon.  But  though  the  principle  of  government  by 
persons  specially  brought  up  to  it  will  not  suffice  to 
produce  good  government,  good  government  cannot  be 
had  without  it ; and  the  grand  difficulty  in  politics  will 
for  a long  time  be,  how  best  to  conciliate  the  two  great 
elements  on  which  good  government  depends  ; to  com- 
bine the  greatest  amount  of  the  advantage  derived  from 
the  independent  judgment  of  a specially  instructed  few, 
with  the  greatest  degree  of  the  security  for  rectitude  of 
purpose  derived  from  rendering  those  few  responsible 
to  the  many. 

What  is  necessary,  however,  to  make  the  two  ends 
perfectly  reconcilable,  is  a smaller  matter  than  might 
at  first  sight  be  supposed.  It  is  not  necessary  that 
the  many  should  themselves  be  perfectly  wise ; it  is 
sufficient  if  they  be  duly  sensible  of  the  value  of 
superior  wisdom.  It  is  sufficient  if  they  be  aware 
that  the  majority  of  political  questions  turn  upon  con- 
siderations of  which  they,  and  all  persons  not  trained 
for  the  purpose,  must  necessarily  be  very  imperfect 
judges ; and  that  their  judgment  must  in  general  be 
exercised  rather  upon  the  characters  and  talents  of  the 
persons  whom  they  appoint  to  decide  these  questions 
for  them,  than  upon  the  questions  themselves.  They 
would  then  select  as  their  representatives  those  whom 
the  general  voice  of  the  instructed  pointed  out  as  the 
most  instructed,  and  would  retain  them,  so  long  as  no 
symptom  was  manifested  in  their  conduct,  of  being 
under  the  influence  of  interests  or  of  feelings  at  vari- 
ance with  the  public  welfare.  This  implies  no  greater 
wisdom  in  the  people  than  the  very  ordinary  wisdom 
of  knowing  what  things  they  are  and  are  not  sufficient 
judges  of.  If  the  bulk  of  any  nation  possess  a fair 
share  of  this  wisdom,  the  argument  for  universal 
suffrage,  so  far  as  respects  that  people,  is  irresistible ; 

25 


386 


APPENDIX 


for  the  experience  of  ages,  and  especially  of  all  great 
national  emergencies,  bears  out  the  assertion,  that 
whenever  the  multitude  are  really  alive  to  the  neces- 
sity of  superior  intellect,  they  rarely  fail  to  distinguish 
those  who  possess  it. 

* * * * * 

The  idea  of  a rational  democracy  is,  not  that  the 
people  themselves  govern,  but  that  they  have  securit}^ 
for  good  government.  This  security  they  cannot  have 
by  any  other  means  than  by  retaining  in  their  own 
hands  the  ultimate  control.  If  they  renounce  this, 
they  give  themselves  up  to  tyranny.  A governing 
class  not  accountable  to  the  people  are  sure,  in  the 
main,  to  sacrifice  the  people  to  the  pursuit  of  separate 
interests  and  inclinations  of  their  own.  Even  their 
feelings  of  morality,  even  their  ideas  of  excellence, 
have  reference,  not  to  the  good  of  the  people,  but  to 
their  own  good  : their  very  virtues  are  class  virtues — 
their  noblest  acts  of  patriotism  and  self-devotion  are  but 
the  sacrifice  of  their  private  interests  to  the  interests 
of  their  class.  The  heroic  public  virtue  of  a Leonidas 
was  quite  compatible  with  the  existence  of  Helots.  In 
no  government  will  the  interests  of  the  people  be  the 
object,  except  where  the  people  are  able  to  dismiss 
their  rulers  as  soon  as  the  devotion  of  those  rulers  to 
the  interests  of  the  people  becomes  questionable.  But 
this  is  the  only  fit  use  to  be  made  of  popular  power. 
Provided  good  intentions  can  be  secured,  the  best 
government  (need  it  be  said?)  must  be  the  govern- 
ment of  the  wisest,  and  these  must  always  be  a few. 
The  people  ought  to  be  the  masters,  but  they  are 
masters  who  must  employ  servants  more  skilful  than 
themselves  : like  a ministry  when  they  employ  a mili- 
tary commander,  or  the  military  commander  when  he 
employs  an  army  surgeon.  When  the  minister  ceases 
to  confide  in  the  commander,  he  dismisses  him  and 
appoints  another;  but  he  does  not  send  him  instruc- 
tions when  and  where  to  fight.  He  holds  him  respon- 
sible only  for  intentions  and  for  results.  The  people 
must  do  the  same.  This  does  not  render  the  control 


APPENDIX 


387 


of  the  people  nugatory.  The  control  of  a government 
over  the  commander  of  an  army  is  not  nugatory.  A 
man’s  control  over  his  physician  is  not  nugatory, 
though  he  does  not  direct  his  physician  what  medicine 
to  administer. 

But  in  government,  as  in  everything  else,  the 
danger  is,  lest  those  who  can  do  whatever  they  will, 
may  will  to  do  more  than  is  for  their  ultimate  interest. 
The  interest  of  the  people  is,  to  choose  for  their  rulers 
the  most  instructed  and  the  ablest  persons  who  can 
be  found ; and  having  done  so,  to  allow  them  to  exer- 
cise their  knowledge  and  ability  for  the  good  of  the 
people,  under  the  check  of  the  freest  discussion  and 
the  most  unreserved  censure,  but  with  the  least  pos- 
sible direct  interference  of  their  constituents — as  long 
as  it  is  the  good  of  the  people,  and  not  some  private 
end,  that  they  are  aiming  at.  A democracy  thus 
administered  would  unite  all  the  good  qualities  ever 
possessed  by  any  government.  Not  only  would  its 
ends  be  good,  but  its  means  would  be  as  well  chosen 
as  the  wisdom  of  the  age  would  allow ; and  the  omni- 
potence of  the  majority  would  be  exercised  through 
the  agency  and  according  to  the  judgment  of  an  en- 
lightened minority,  accountable  to  the  majority  in  the 
last  resort. 

But  it  is  not  possible  that  the  constitution  of  the 
democracy  itself  should  provide  adequate  security  for 
its  being  understood  and  administered  in  this  spirit. 
This  rests  with  the  good  sense  of  the  people  them- 
selves. If  the  people  can  remove  their  rulers  for  one 
thing,  they  can  for  another.  That  ultimate  control, 
without  which  they  cannot  have  security  for  good 
government,  may,  if  they  please,  be  made  the  means 
of  themselves  interfering  in  the  government,  and 
making  their  legislators  mere  delegates  for  carrying 
into  execution  the  preconceived  judgment  of  the 
majority.  If  the  people  do  this,  they  mistake  their 
interest ; and  such  a government,  though  better  than 
most  aristocracies,  is  not  the  kind  of  democracy  which 
wise  men  desire. 


388 


APPENDIX 


,So“e  Pfsons,  and  persons  too  whose  desire  for 
enlightened  government  cannot  be  questioned,  do  not 
take  so  serious  a view  of  this  perversion  of  the  true 
idea  of  an  enlightened  democracy.  They  say,  it  is 
well  that  the  many  should  evoke  all  political  questions 
to  their  own  tribunal  and  decide  them  according  to 
their  own  judgment,  because  then  philosophers  will 
be  compelled  to  enlighten  the  multitude,  and  render 
Wws  CaSabIe  of  appreciating  their  more  profound 
views.  No  one  can  attach  greater  value  than  we  do 
to  this  consequence  of  popular  government,  so  far  as 
we  believe  it  capable  of  being  realized;  and  the 
argumen  would  be  irresistible,  if,  in  order  toTnstruct 
the  people,  all  that  is  requisite  were  to  will  it ; if  it 
were  only  the  discovery  of  political  truths  which 
required  study  and  wisdom,  and  the  evidences  of 
z“nwhen  discovered  could  be  made  apparent  at! 
once  to  any  person  of  common  sense,  as  well  educated 
as  every  individual  in  the  community  might  and 

trmh*  beWBuVthe  ^act  is  not  so-  Many  of  the* 
arp  itp0  politics  (in  political  economy,  for  instance) 
vlr-sffi  °f  % concatenation  of  propositions,  the 

Zry  ®rst  stePs  °f  which  no  one  who  has  not  gone 
through  a course  of  study  is  prepared  to  concede  ; 
there  are  others,  to  have  a complete  perception  of 
which  requires  much  meditation  and  experience  of 
human  nature.  How  will  philosophers  bring  these ' 
home  to  the  perceptions  of  the  multitude  ? Can  thev  ! 
enable  common  sense  to  judge  of  science,  or  inexpe- ' 
nence  of  experience?  Every  one  who  has  even' 
crossed  the  threshold  of  political  philosophy  knows,  ' 
that  on  many  of  its  questions  the  false  view  is  greatly  ' 
the  most  plausible ; and  a large  portion  of  its  truths 
are,  and  must  always  remain,  to  all  but  those  who 
nave  specially  studied  them,  paradoxes ; as  contrary, 
m appearance,  to  common  sense,  as  the  proposition 
tnat  the  earth  moves  round  the  sun.  The  multitude 
will  never  believe  those  truths,  until  tendered  to  them 
ro“  an  authority  in  which  they  have  as  unlimited 
confidence  as  they  have  in  the  unanimous  voice  of 


APPENDIX 


389 


astronomers  on  a question  of  astronomy.  That  they 
should  have  no  such  confidence  at  present  is  no 
discredit  to  them  ; for  where  are  the  persons  who  are 
entitled  to  it  ? But  we  are  well  satisfied  that  it  will 
be  given,  as  soon  as  knowledge  shall  have  made 
sufficient  progress  among  the  instructed  classes  them- 
selves, to  produce  something  like  a general  agreement 
in  their  opinions  on  the  leading  points  of  moral  and 
political  doctrine.  Even  now,  on  those  points  on 
which  the  instructed  classes  are  agreed,  the  unin- 
structed have  generally  adopted  their  opinions. 


BILLING  AND  SONS,  LTD.,  PRINTERS,  GUILDFORD 


( i 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 

304M61 1 D1 905  C001 

DISSERTATIONS  AND  DISCUSSIONS$LOND 


